glass crash lands
my pants
my pants
catch golden
malt-liquor spritz
not to mention
my shattered nerves.
trombone
shorty,
named for
Mr. Gillespie’s majestic,
launched a full forty
from his Pontiac
Aztek
yo but at least i can say
he threw a bottle at me.
her daddy says get a job. a real job.
What did her soul-brains
command her hands (commander hands!)
(last on a list of pains
you know well old man)
--what her soul brain
commanded her hands
to do--
(before
she met me
we had him then again
we had her)
--is unimportant.
immaterial
to you,
what she do.
you know what I mean
she asks
after every second breath
words levitate--add
auditory hallucination
to her
maniacal nights
scrawling scratch on scrap
paper
eschewing the pills again
much to the chagrin
of the doctor that tried to fuck her
If only I was
Gebre-selassie,
heir to the
Merob Traditional Ethiopian Bread fortune,
when that pretty lady today
smiled at me
or the devil in her tea
If only the words I pray
could sustain our transaction
until the
slipstream sucks
our hands emancipate
