on some nights in summer,
dragging the cat to us,
round table thick and slick
with white paint;

soapy water at hand,
metal teeth and wet fur;
music looping: sperm whales,
giant squid.

I’m not a fan of exclamation marks
because they feel like lying

nothing
is so exciting

that it can’t stand on its
own
actuated by and of
itself
sizzling in its own juices

cold friday
doesn’t she know
it’s cold friday

eating ice cream
— in defiance
— for fashion
— for a laugh
is this one of those bullshit things,
“drinking tea on a hot summer’s day
makes you oh so cool, other person,
don’tcha…

It is difficult
to look in the eyes
of the eternal
just fooling itself
that it is a girl
who must look forward
and hold onto things.

What am I thinking?
I’ll tell you, lift lids
and slide flesh open,
set free the blue smoke
and green triangles,
pour out the old sea,
undulating wet
on the kitchen floor.