|||
After Anna K. Crooks
You don’t hear people say no offense, but… much anymore
you don’t see people rub their tummy in a circular motion
to signify hunger much anymore either and you never ever hear about
extra long guillotine blades that do sextuple murder at once and
you’ve got to wonder, is this what entropy looks like;
am I just going to fade back into space dust with a celsius in my hand?
And then there’s the nature of things, little things like do the fish in
fish sticks ever think, this is not what we meant to be,
winning an auction just means you paid the most for something,
how the feeling of heat parching the back of your throat
can be a smell and also the way you touch someone;
if I woke up one day and nothing hurt I’d probably just think I died
If my body is the box God, and my body contains God
what am I doing sitting in the motel room cuck chair again, God?
Why do I think so much about
“when this cars a rockin don’t come a knockin” bumper stickers, God?
Don’t you feel guilty
for making worms and making rain
and making worms come out of the ground when it rains
and then making sidewalks.
Once you get going it’s hard to stop and I’m complaining because
for instance, the very first word beneath idolatry in Roget’s
3rd edition thesaurus is love and I had nothing to do with that but
because I like to makeout a little, I deserve IBS?
He says one day I’ll understand, I say acab includes god fucko
so we try different ways of saying what we mean
but in the moment we aren’t really lovers anymore, just grammarians.
