wore that winter's snow like a backpack.
I was freezing,
waiting for what's-his-toes.
Counting backwards from pomegranate,
6, six...where's your whistle?
Your brain won't shut up
But you just have duct tape over its mouth.
Open your heart with a fucking hatchet
and just let it all pour out forever.
Heaven is a poem
in a church basement in Brooklyn.
An old woman reads a sonnet
to her dildo she calls George W. Bush.
I am emotional,
and I escape in the snow.
To a future in which
I still don't know.
I miss New York City
more than pity.