Taking A Dead Horse to Tea

ashes floating in my teeth like flotsam
aware and lingering like stale bread
without the gathered mold
sore and unalert
confused and crashing
avoiding particular thoughts
like a bill
or a broken relationship.
the machine of clear energy
and broken shotglasses
and mistake tattoos
and mistake watch purchases.
beautiful women dating twat dudes in beards
or horn-rimmed glasses.
trying too hard,
the both of them.
then, i remember that the word “beautiful”
doesn’t really mean anything.
like the word “magic”
or the way people use “sorry”
or “love”.
generic functions
to stumble through social equations,
the paint-by-number images
that monks tried to paint over
with portraits of saints and angels
lambs and dogs
choirs and trumpets
babies look at women.
it’s not that i don’t want to listen
through all nine voicemails
i just don’t want to listen to the second one.
i’m sitting at the end of the earth in this cafe
far-flung from distance
or of oil-paintings of pentagrams
light shattering the focus
wrenches burrowing into my head,
halo figurines and dropped patterns
going through your house,
through your drawers
rifling through your underwear
spooled and unspooled on this identical reel
a waitress comes up and asks me if i need anything.
she’s beautiful
there’s no other way to say it.
my headphones are in, and i remove them
to politely speak,
but i see her look at me twice
in two different ways.
and i forgot what i was to say
and i forgot that this place
doesn’t have table service,
murmuring, a frank murmur on my breath
sliding thoughts like the way a coarse rabbit
tails through the thunder,
the words go missing again.
i can feel the world around me reeling,
as i try to remain silent and still;
and the only words available are
“i love you, i’m sorry.”


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