this is a little bit after work it makes me think about to work

the street is empty and humid
I don't know what temperature is anymore
I don't know what I did this drink at anymore
don't know what kind of drink it is
it's free after work drink
I'm sitting in front of work out
and I'm wishing that I had all of the minutes of the world
to Castle Rock on me
to turn it rock on me
order it
rock on me
I sweat out this in the kitchen
the sins of the kitchen
the wet slimy under my nails
the slamming me under my nails
it under my nails meet under my nails
I have more meat for my bones
what I have in my milk crate:
animal on a sandwich wrapped in tin foil
chicken eggs wrapped in a brown paper bag
a quart container of coffee, dipping in wrinkled on the lead
addicted and then a peach and LA sky
and non negotiable pay stub with my name on it
a box of roasted brussel sprouts
a bottle of water I always forget to drink it
phone charger
sliced bread.
I'm in a good mood
I like my people,
and I like the scene
just wish I could call Kyle
because I miss him
any send me messages that a Dad would send
I could see how you could be lucky to have him for a dad
but I've got mad dads
every man I've been very close to, close to by choice
other than lovers
has been dead to me
they've been dads to me
but it's alright after work hard one
in short sleeves and short dress
and a compliment from a woman
and a smoke with new friends
but I forgot to change out of these Pumas
so my style remains fresh.

poem(s) for cleanliness

The kitchen is clean.
My room is very clean,
I took hours to clean the bed of debris.
the fresh clean air
I guess I will go & try to clean up this little life of mine.
very clean in my little atticroom.
The room is so perfectly clean & adorable,
in some clean girls' house,
to clean a large tent.

from momentos preciosas

a good soul-cleansing trip to the Tropic of Capricorn
I have a near perfectly clean attic bedroom  

song for the dogs and denver

she is wiping her cool breath on me! she drops her leaves there, so I can foot them when I walk. is it the northside of chicago here? is it boise to the north? is it highschool, is it being 26, still? is it twins, the same person, the signs, the only children, the histories, the halved lives? is she later on in gone months, or is she samewise when before she existed? not missing the spiders of oregon (though don't I still love them?) is it being unemployed, is it the fish in the street, is it the p-i-z-z-a... the caffeine craze, the early mornings & kitchen floors. the sound of my sweet dog as she growls and snaps at the innocents, wanting to caress her iridescent fur... is it timed, now, after it's stopped and it's beginning to grow again? and as my health itself flourishes upwards with a dramatic flourish of the heart.

trues

My feet are cold whilst I sit sipping creme de la earl grey. It's brown woven inside-shoes, and a dark redbrown drink in a tall jar. I use a cat to pour the milk, and from where I stay at table a dreary california kitchen, 1954, soaked all portlandy, and I wonder a clear mind shouldn't be far off. Nutbutters, cashmachines, and the sings of birds of an overcast morn.