smells like chicken

sittin’ outside in

the sweet spot,

 

under the tree in

the parking lot;

 

the dumpster by this

joint smells like

 

chicken. and this is

living, counting coins on

 

a corner, trying to buy a tiny

piece of the power ball.

 

the first words out of her mouth

this morning were mother fucker.

 

they were not literal

:

 

her pelvis is locked up like a fort;

nothing to see here.

 

in order to get this flushed anymore

she has to walk in the night rain,

 

fast, uphill,

thinking, thinking—

 

her head and feet so far apart

they scream.

 

in love with a fantasy:

it sustains her like the whiskey

 

she needs to wash down her bread.

she can’t remember the first

 

words said, or the time be-

fore they met, before they parallel

 

parked their force-fed lives full

of love, war, birth, joy, death.

 

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you’re still very small: you

don’t take up much room,

 

here in this swollen

swoon of little sips and

 

tiny turn-key tips

like bread-crumbs

 

to follow down

this crooked path.

 

you create your own

paucity of time, which

 

is always

just enough,

 

just tucked into your

breast-pocket as you

 

dig through hidden

portholes, running

 

straight-laced lines

directly to the muse;

 

swiftly turning the hurried

world upon its haptic head.

 

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