at dirty parties.
I wear an apron while I write;
poetry is messy.
I love Mondays,
because they aren't Fridays,
like certain fine gone nights
just begging to be made into mornings.
I see Hashem hidden in corners
of my vaulted ceiling point-of-view,
and I just got done telling the drawing devil
what I want my life to look like.
I want to dance with fear
in the loss of rockets,
while I prevent poverty
and simultaneously write my hipster heart out.
I am suddenly serious, earlobes to toes;
somewhere we were funny.
It’s
two o’clock, I and the old AM agreed
upon
the nature of the murderous Cold
Night.
While
I slick love,
and
the wars above
have
no gas,
I am down here and I have no gloves.