the Lindbergh baby cries
outside your window at
dusk. that baby always
cries for you. he knows
when you pretend to
fall asleep. he feels it
when you steady your
sleepyless breath. he
has no eyes, but still see’s
your toes and their nails curling under the sheets.
us now sing the static
arbitrary like ness ly. Uhhm-
mer
i
can! Loves it!?1 And you all
maintain your social (hair) net
working in that media needy(ugh)..
lunch
Lady
LAND. (of the big brave sheep)
delicately hipstermotized, grazing on info
ladies bro’s brosephines – pretty
littlequiverjaw – Fat Free(ly)
some other new(ly) age(d) place to be phree
“Ain’t no reason amercians (whose ceiling eyes ghost me)
Cain’t vote for a nigger.”
Amen
The dream was in my pocket
scribbled with red ink
never to be erased.
Now fireflies in your blue eyes are like kaleidoscopes-
and even in the shadows of this giant oak tree
serendipitous light clings to you like static,
except closer and excessively copasetic.
I am holding my breath.
You are reaching in my pocket.
We have become opaque.
