13.
We fevered bravely in the false business
of digital image-making, trade school
pity for those IQ’d naked; as you came
into the too-cruel world on a horse fly,
wooing me to the semi-real career
of sweet pies (moon/potato), constantly
making up black/white stories with plastic
rats choked in bags, while the cowardice in
your life misplaced the puffy face of the
bland midwestern enemy, spartan-wild.
Black salt and sea quests and the rosy rub
of he who fingered down at dawn: boogey-
up man walking tiptoed the well-planned ave
(and of course the rues) to the exponent
of carrot juice and ocean life spilling
the slow secrets of mitochondria,
their miniscule glow on the grill of you—
a fleshy floppy figurine but not
unlike Newark or yard sale notebook sets.
Your silly nilly turns the collies free.
