Villanesque, for Mark*

There is writing on my underwear

And it's too cold out; and no one should be homeless anyway—

No one can read the writing that's not / the point

So I say 'dogs, dogs' as if I mean it

And I do, besides

There is writing on my underwear

I sit in the red flesh or in the purple flesh

And drink in other languages

No one can read the writing that's not / the point

I never understood, so let's fuck with the form

Such mindless theism

There is writing on my underwear

Such mindless theism affords the campaign, yes

I know we’re going to shock the political elite

No one can read the writing that's not / the point

I know we’re going to shock the political elite

No one should be homeless anyway, ever—

There is writing on my underwear?

No, no  one can read the writing that's not / the point

*Pierre always loved Natasha, as did I. Silly sap. Natasha loved the idea of being loved. As did I.

Poems Left on Recording Devices

1.

who the ‘you’ is and for whom the ‘I’ ‘we’ be, that is

who the ‘you’ aren’t and how the who or whom you ‘is’ is

not the same ‘you’ as ‘who’ the ‘I’ or ‘you’ was

this invention

is still

a prototype

this prototype is still confused

about pronouns

this pronoun is still hoping it is not alone

this pronoun is hoping

this ‘you’ is who the you is

who the ‘I’ how ‘we’ hope the ‘they’ aren’t or

are they?

this ‘who’ is the same as this ‘they’ who

deliver

disguise

yet

who hears ‘you’ and to whom does this you, this I, this we

lean?

glean?

a transport of sorts, a supposition, a slit

between the curtains where the real world peeks in

2.

Je vous promets

...

L’amour de la vie

I don’t know what to do next, take another slurp

of wine? wave my arms in the air? surrender?

Wave this indecision proudly

sing the edges into oblivion

sing the oblivion softly, softly

sing it anyway

3.

an arctic irreverence prevented me from replying

hello, goodnight

it’s not gold but there’s something in them thar hills

preventing us from saying what comes next

4.

thanks for tuning in, or, SOUP: I want it to be really good

no more dreams of pulling hair

when you wish upon a train, when the sparks

fly you'll remember this slo-mo progeny we don't know what else to do we try

to follow the stations of the heart

and sign up by accident for old battle stories of throwing up

somehow

we make it to the church on time