What matters now are your sea-legs,
your ability to like walk around and stuff
not shitting your pants.
Your beloved turtle speeds into the sweep
and turning curlicues
with barely a rattle.
Snow settles into the cattails.
It’s amazing what you can get used to
if you must, knowing
if is just a nice way to say when.
Wrong cell phone plan.
Somehow the argument has gotten confused.
This was never supposed to happen.
Diamonds are unbreakable.
Dogs love you unconditionally.
Birds supposedly aren’t capable
of disdain but clearly
this macaw thinks you fucking suck.
It calls you dicknose,
claws at your palm.
It’s all coming back to you now.
No, it’s not.
The after-effects of the dream
are its legacy, e.g.
feeling pretty weird and guilty
even just looking at a lamp, a mailbox.
Blood flows through
the channels of chalky grouting
before pooling over the tile.
In the dream, still.
The phone rings.
Soft-serve ice cream,
human beings made mostly of water,
desperate to join their elemental kin.
The ineffable blows a chill
through the keyhole
like a jet stream of pot smoke,
even the goddamn grape jelly freighted with secret code.
Melodrama makes us feel bad
about our already bad feelings,
despairing over a peanut.
O sad little peanut, what will become of us?
Tangle of crows.
Junked in the weeds, sucker MC.
