*Untitled*

Freshly divorced
from this sick season
where the trees strip
revealing hips pink with the sad tread-mark
of panty elastic,
damp air against a dry tongue packed
with nuts,
classic renditions
of tragic Italian folk songs,
and emerging from the mucous,
a new throat.

*On a T-Shirt*

You'd be set on me
if you were you
like you must be you
so come on
my nice shirt
all my life & you
look great yes
just you & you
must make me
from this dance
in these pants
believe in money.

Pants believe in money.

And I don't need anything
but directions to die happy.