Shirt aist Waste

Ape arms dangling over earth, wind, and fire, a couple drunk couples reaching up a little higher to the blood moon, to the blue moon, to anything but the Earth.

Stained the satin waitress with a tip minus two, tipping in the moonlight hours but I wouldn’t give the moon.

I’ve choked on oiled whiskey sour black and blue I’ve thimbled down a timeline tack, but on that night, second street, them flashing lights and dancing arms, almost cut me right in half, you see.

But on that night, second street, I ventured further down beneath, past candle light, closed deli meats, saw the golden calf reflect to me: reflection of handleless door, hour glass in time, so I grabbed your hand, and you grabbed mine, pushed a little farther, and you pushed and pulled a little more.

Sitting, screaming, serenades of hand grenade winds, there was a fire on the inside of that building, but we both wanted in.

Poetry 85