no fun/no love

bludgeon the cop in your head—
mouse trap to the dome


your dead won’t hold you


deus ex machina come, crash
into me


this isn’t an axiom


cerebral car crash in silver streets


----------------------------------------


someone asks if i really like the dodgers


while you breastfeed the one that survived


it always comes back to foucault
& the proliferation of surveillance
you watching me watching you
watching my own death on t.v.


so what if i’m no fun anymore…


define praxis or agape or gargantuan
define my long list of confessions
my brief prayers / my sacrilege sacrifice


----------------------------------------------------


yes maybe your absence is a presence
maybe my sleep deprived molcajete eyes
are rummaging for honest sleep


can’t find a decent parking space on
the east or the west side
can’t find the little halo tucked
away in my conglomerate lethargy


------------------------------------------------


on south pasadena ave, palms a’glittering
santa anas blanket my private vigil

in a city of parking lot infrastructures
it isn’t enough to try & find you >>>

yes this is an apology
but in the aristotelian
sense—flat cherry coke bad day hood lyric

—a new american classic

whisper it ///

on gray salt paloma 108th street, owls at dusk
are pantoums perched on palms—they too, forgive