There is a planet on his shoulders. Are his shoes right? Is his taste in movies cultured enough? His jealously comes in rings. Dear Neptune, no one taught him how to kiss. No body-celestial was bold enough to enter his orbit. Poor blue, he’s never had a moon no satellite, no plaid clad asteroid bent…
Tag: 2017 pontoon poetry
Grips Are Fleeting Things
1 You are sour. We sit soaking in the school fire sprinklers listening to the music playing in our heads. We almost fuck. But you leave and I spend the rest of my life wondering. 2 Your hair is black like oxidized, polished iron. Blades curved deadly across crown. Brave fingers pull it back in…
Los Carneros Rd
My friend knew a cloistered group in Berkeley who made acid. We drive 3 more people up to the Bay to get to another show another couch all huddled in the back of my Corvair, Poi Dog Pondering on the tapedeck. We spend what is left of night in People’s Park, wake up, get in…
June Cleaver Nails
There are days when the only way I make it is to put on a dress, pearls and step out into the world like I have it all together, like every mascaraed eyelash is in place, like if someone walked into my house they would see perfectly parallel vacuum lines. My short manicured nails, cultured…
