from Diamonds in the Flesh

Because I know writing tired makes for the best,
I go. The incense man was back on the A train
today. He walks in, says, “You’re gonna do the

electric
slide!”

I always want to sing “Hollywood, Hollywood
Swingin,” in the taxi. Remember the last time
you saw something that looked like an eggplant?

Me
neither.

We want a good-looking cupcake. I missed my turn,
saw Mexican Catholic kids in sombreros lined up
for Our Lady of Guadalupe in the Shell station lot.

100 unread emails.
100 shots. Bang.

Watching someone facetime in public is slightly
pornographic. Her helper dog is not helping. I am
resistant to change but trust in the approaching

chaos. The Hobbit
in 2D, 3D, or print.

Never seen an egg fry outdoors. Never seen
a zebra-donkey hybrid, but actually I was a
backup singer. Actually what I hope you mean:

meet me
somewhere damp.

The Day I Read All My Goddamned Emails,
a short story. The day we drank six bottles
of wine and forgot about it. That alley by

the chicken place
is still a death-trap.

I love your fedora. We want to further
penetrate New York. I’ve been optioned
by NBC and–good news–I lost one pound!

He said. He thought
I could help him.

He has really weird eyebrows for a celebrity
chef. I’m writing to say, I’m very proud of us.
I mean, that salami was amazing. It smells

like a ghost
took a shit.

When you are getting busy I am quitting.
Like from a 90’s film, I felt so bad. Come in.
She trips and stomps right through it. Business

Of business and
Biofuels, a horchata.

Cookies don’t have to be sweet. Fascists don’t
have to be racists. Robots don’t have to have
faces. I can’t have those Catholic crackers

I’m allergic
to gluten.

My Google Docs defaults to Mountain Time.
I googled horchata looking for cortado, and you
know better than to bring a hammer down on me.

One. Detain. In. Me.
I’m sorry; typo.

Hang on, let me take a picture of this burrito, then
we can talk about how invitations work. The entire
wedding service will be spoken in tongues. I don’t

fuck with
OkCupid.

I think we are writing a rap song. I think that is the
drinking game. Say cupcake instead of cunt, even if
you already say cupcake. That’s what I said. Flow

is earnestly
not a real word.

Actually, he is the Kanye West of commercial
banking. And Paul Walker, looking down on us from
from his big Lamborghini in the sky. Combs have

teeth, brushes
have bristles.

I laugh while she spends my money. Music decides.
Can you calm down? We should talk about skin.
It’s the plan: whisper backward your love letter.

Motherfucker. Paper,
whisper, cover song.

Henceforth, all liquids shall be plural: let’s drink
some motherfucking milks. Is this the sniper
part? I went to a tea party and all they had was

water
and OJ.

A nation complaining it doesn’t have enough.
Only, she made a bad decision about her time
and the man took a smoke break with 8 dogs.

Chinatown gridlock.
Dogwalker paparazzi.

My bed is my favorite microbiome. List of things
I forgot: measuring tape, tortillas, apple, mittens.
Weaselskin Farms is actually all about horses

and horse
breeding.

*

The subway is a fog and water diva, handout hangout.
If the zipper merge is a lifehack, then I’m the queen
of the seabirds. Are you sure it doesn’t make any sense?

More mercenary
than missionary.

Colonial era handbags vs. Colonial era sex moves. In a
dream the watusi creates an F-5 hurricane named Buc. How
other people believe in heaven, I want to believe in ghosts,

so I can be one
when I die.

Liquid bolero: your bath, my neck, my whole outfit today.
Scabs in your eyefold from crying the hardest. You win.
No contest. Nowhere near the worst thing about the year.

Some other
indignity.

I have built-ins cause I built them. According to Frankl,
in an existential vacuum sexual libido becomes rampant.
The haunting specters of New Year’s Eve, past, present,

and future, fucking us.
Melancholy at best.

Used to have better immunity. Put a couple years on my face
this week. Everything is as bad as the biggest complainer says.
Anticipate the pounce. Clear away the clouds in your bones.

The meaning
of the word tired.

You start at the bottom when you dig your own grave. The
unknown gestation period for suicidal shame. Unexplained
weight loss is like a UFO or the Lindbergh Baby. I am

afraid I will
disappear.

Zizek couldn’t work the human mic talking about state-
sponsored murder and I didn’t want to miss class where
they changed all the room numbers mid-semester. If you

aren’t afraid,
your guts suck.

I put too much sriracha in this soup. Snow in the East
sunshine in the West. I assure you, the snakes are very
real. Did you know they have Dairy Queens in Philly?

Whisper singing
for the win.

Having several senses of duty lately, yet if there’s no
I/you there’s still enough despair to go around. I heard
a man scream “Speak to a representative” but I didn’t

see which
man he was.

You would probably like, The Self Unstable. Sorry, I’m
amazon.com-ing you again. But really, if you don’t like
Rocky IV, you cannot blame America, and you can

forget about
patriotism.

Got an excuse for everything. Insinuating yourself into
someone else’s gig. I don’t believe Beyoncé’s ever been
drunk. Make a right on Empire Boulevard. The calendar

has me scared
shitless.

Such pimples! such hardons! such moody loves. I tug
the moon and the moon tugs me. This watch looks like
modernism took a shit on my wrist, but at least I finally

perform
my age.

Leaned back on by a body the shape of my ex, all woolly.
People suck from their cans of beer and I can taste it by
looking if I want to. I don’t want to. The dirty, muscular

mouths of
my enemy.

Our way with words. Our way with bodies. Trampstamp:
a dolphin riding a jetski. Shotgunning Red Bulls in the grocery
store parking lot. A new sentimental landscape requires you

show your emotional
investment materially.

A couple of events I’ll never get over. Step 1: Go to space.
Step 2: Tell someone who’s not me to shut up. The news
just said Vaseline is a barrier, and I have to run an errand.

Get the lube
off my poems.

It’s ok to pee on the seat if your washing off the pubes. The
female equivalent of blue balls. I’d arrest you if I had handcuffs.
Consensus is a lie and every knows it. Text 505-330-2819 to

verify my
existence.