the last diatribe doesn’t sweat the small stuff

“and

we’re all

going to

fucking

die”

bomb/drums bleating,

quietly building cries for asylum

to the west, we wait for asylum

to asylum, a toast–

is it more than right or righteous

to sound alarms in the midwest

when the songs on the radio

are this fucking good?

so what

we’re all fucking dying anyway,

we’ve become quite good

at this death game

where do I put the polymath,

trade Newark for beach stones,

sing apocalyptic and shitty jazz

with all of this surmounting winter gaze/game, fried-up nonsense?

this swath and swatch of ground game

this swass and seasonal affective disorder game

this diatribe of loose loneliness

grew tiring before my heart,

in front of its chambers

a speaker in surround

in lighting claps and thunder strikes

but what about the creeping people?

but the people, they sleep so sound in their beds

the people sleep so sound in their beds

so sounding

so sounding

so sounding

so sounding

POEMS I WAS OBVIOUSLY TOO DRUNK TO WRITE WELL

just like it was

happily ever

a “just for fun”

amble to the

pre-ambular or

lax nature

of sleeping through sunset

and into the wake,

of widower practice and

pockets full of silver,

fuckery and windswept bangs

and eyebrow natures of the

“until death do us no longer fun”

into one another at the food and liquor

variety

spelling ess-es

with seas

splitting the ill with a kill in ingenuity

as the fresh hand cramp

resurfacing period,

uncomfortably welcomed

after a rushed penning

(how silly, of shock poetry

to read my nightly regressions)

unto teenage-esque

anonymities

–or–

how many teas are asleep

in spearmint