of anything,
poems seem to steal my nights
like seamless dreams,
like love,
and shots of whiskey.
while I eat my own lips
and burn out of time.
where once again becomes once agains.
this all belongs in a gallery.
hearts burn
and heartburn,
burning out of time,
I need your mess.
of everything,
music mostly steals my nights
just as coffee steals my mornings
and soup steals my afternoons.
typewriter moments,
devils take my night for rides
like Hondas left in the river drive.
of something,
breaking-and-entering
into the calm moral machine gun
midsummer nightmares,
now is now,
just think about me
just think about me there.