I donate my time
after a three am toast
and an assorted amount
of Legos.
I want to shoot myself
in the fucking face
for something I said
to leftover Mafia.
Wrapped inside new sheets
in Harlem,
I don't want anything
but all of love, again.
Not for any other reason
but yesterland, late shift,
where seasons go for discounts
here in an American fork city.
Baby, beyond you duck face
you have to know
that I love you
more than my cocaine words.