Funneling grape soda and cranberry juice through a lemon squeezer
It’s all pointless anyway.
Birds fall out of the sky like
M&M’s-colored school buses lying dead on the side of the road.
Palm trees are burning on beaches dirtied with cigarettes
And your laughter.
I knocked on your door
Through the peephole I almost saw
(or almost dreamed I could almost see)
Your eyes greener than supermarket flowers waiting to bud—
not sprayed enough with fertilizer water, yet.
That if you let me inside I would find you playing the piano
that couldn’t fit through the door
that fell down the stairs and broke in a thousand screams
(almost killing the deliveryman—who
Sent him alone?)
So now I’m in my kitchen
Pouring citrus and sweet purple and bloody red vibeliquids
Into a McDonald’s cup (paper, untarnished, seven
and a half months old),
Not watching you.
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