Everything is already perfect: I walked home from work
last night in the cold, skimming stoned and worried
over you across the flimsiest crystalline flesh of a
sky, leaving behind dodging stars the wet trail of my
tongue so I wouldn't lose myself, dying with each step
closer to home.

On the way I inhale, and night air shapes my lungs to
fit.

The body is social, signed with misgiving. Coat it
with cool tar and winter tourniquet and still it
moves, the only thing visible to cars flowing through
Cooper Foster. In my head I tie flowers together of
acrylic-crinkled chassis, hand each spinning bud to
you. You, however, prefer quicker food: light, heat,
Guinness, laughter. You're always lying back to watch
everything careen on Cooper Foster; but you're still
in love with something you can't see.

I think of you perfect, like these stars. I am a
performance.


=====


This is as useful as a doll.–Gertrude Stein

Poem of the Day:http://www.lewislacook.com/POD/index.php

associate editor, _sidereality

http://www.sidereality.com/

——–

http://www.lewislacook.com/

tubulence artist studio: http://turbulence.org/studios/lacook/index.html











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