Franco caught the first pass, of course.
Eric caught the second and started talking shit.
I resign myself to the only thing concealed
that there is nothing to conceal,
intercept the next and run towards
the Turkey's Nest in a moment I couldn't murder.
I ain't been Brooklyn
since she's been mine,
must've been weeks ago,
multiplied by years ago,
where a third party mannequin mouth
must've lied down where the metal
made red rad blue and we all felt expansive.
Tomorrow a phone call,
in which truth sits down like Dylan dog,
and lovers without leverage
still feel the freedom of those summer/fall months
in two-thousand and ten,
where running took too long,
but I am here rearing and cheering.
Back in this business,
between Greenyville and Willytowne,
where my book memories live
on pages between covers designed
by Kansas girls and Minnesota worlds,
but still encompass everything that I see and love
and love and see, goddamnit.