diaric, poetry

’24 rope bunny bratmobile

Photo by Mark Tegethoff on Unsplash
When it’s a playful sun. A fistful.
That’s how I clean now, with my fist.

When a friend brought me here.
1993 but I’ve been here before but
I didn’t know what to listen for.
	The pink rotary phone
	cradled to me with my patience and 
	devotion for you. Please.

When it was Jim Carrey, revisited, unbidden;
movies and acorns; a pocket 
brought me here.
	Eat your hat—a lotus leaf
	—catching into jumping fire 
	into your arms, you fly.

When she can tell me herself her first 
	favorite movie,
	favorite song: 
The Dance of the Happy Forest Sprites
& The Monster Who Loves You


				—When you’re not crazy, it is indeed 
				war crimes upon war
				crimes upon war crimes upon
				War crimes upon war—


spinning Sundaze with my pufffluff baby orange
tiger tree-watching under the orchid bough.

When the nickel jukebox takes a dime
so it’s lowpoly slowerpace and his green erotic 
bray for me. Crawling home to me.

When I belong in ‘90s London [rave piano]
When I belonged—the canary horse cottage
	working-dog-shattered windowglass-and-frame 
When you belong you know: tears spring.

When you tell us you're above it all
you show us how boring.

Stay in the pocket. When you Stay 
in the pocket surfing
barrels-to-thread out of pocket
slipping a stitch ride the needle singing 
	Now is the time to stand out,
	Powerline. Now is the time to count.

When [REDACTED]
	—that was some heat there. 
	How bout it, Laocoön? My teeth / like butter to flesh like you. / You won’t feel a thing.
Anyway, Thank you, Natasha Richardson, for saving my life every time with your hug.


Now that I’ve blown off some steam—

[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

jukebox:

Standard

Leave a comment