You had bran with banana in the morning,
I took another bite of your half brother's
expired Christmas turtle in the foil wrapper.
You were feeling clingy and asked to play
Backgammon. Rolled a Hellraiser, we each
took a game, I won the tiebreaker.
I'm chocolate and you're fruit. Flavored.
The leftover chicken pasta with bonus cheese,
salad with the nasty goddess vinegar dressing.
Friendly shouting, uncontrolled laughter,
echoes of singing loudly together. If you
hear this in the woods it's probably us.
The actual thing out there. Heard and known,
then pursued or avoided. I don't know what
it's like, I'm just doing what I think.
Like a lizard with eighteen tentacles
crossing a river with thirty-six rocks,
getting fussy when getting its hooves wet.
Alright, Business Mode On. All business, take
my goggles off and try to avoid distraction.
Ah fuckit, we like to have a good time.
We ate almond barkmilk and beef dip with
swiss chard and yes more caramel turtles.
Read a book about the otter who died.
It's a difficult thing to look at and name,
confusing though plain to see. Yet the rest
means naught. Only this, our only option.
Else it all dries up, it all fries up, it all
goes away. And then you and me will pick the
weeds and eat the weeds and eat the weeds.
2011
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