have it: a month of solid
silence and invisibility, and you’ve

forgotten me now, I’m sure:
haven’t even taken the movies back.
I feel I might’ve excited you. True,
you said, “You’re mischievous,
undermining, it gets you hot
to be bad,” with the heroin
of your eyes pushing through me,

“I need all your attention.”
Client status: Connected.
In cramped shoes I’m
transparent on milk
ice: sliding over islands, mortar,
crystals lateral with morphine
lapsed into strings,
stillness; my lace.
Cerebral, but rebellious.

The secret to rolling a great joint
is to roll it tight enough to smoke well
but loose enough to let any left-
over stems elude piercing the paper.

I feel it might be exciting
to feel loved. Someone rubs me

until I blossum. Until it

rains on my tongue. This is free.
There are only so many

kinds of sense. One in which
you’re thick, surrendered
to golds and reds, wear glasses
and have supper with your
mother. Meanwhile, outside
our encampment, fat
velvet fires rescue air from
almost total transparency.
I suck up files from a remote
location for work. Wake up
with my eyes already sunk,

jerk off: get high. Client status:
Connected. A tartly-intelligent
girl with her hand on my belly.
She says she likes it too much.
She has all my attention.
Character sets legitimize
where the pre-dawn wind
plies from you in heavy draughts
your childhood, your child, rubber
nipples: reading under a passive
milk of electric, not walls.
They hug cattle before they
shoot them in the brain.

I sleep past waking.

Everyone will be infinitely home soon.

I was dreaming in blush sundaes,
before, though: we are the wasps
that would rather sting themselves
to death, if that means we escape
a natural terminal port: we’re
those literal motherfuckers
who will not hover, but sparkler
and cackle like it’s all that’s
holding us down. I hate the royal
we. Dreaming about licking
the heart of red, the pith of gold,
cleaning you of stalwart
impurities. Ever feel

like you’re just marking a beat
in a line. Smoke orally
inflates the room. Filtration
flirts with purity the way eightball
chicks glom to money;

it makes them feel loved. Even
common houseplants know
where the sun is, swoon and go
limp when she’s gone. I’m still