Like A Weighing
things are pretty, I want to destroy. I tell Noelle Noelle-things;
she’s a coworker & this is the second sentence & I’ve only
slept as much as I’m allowed to sleep when I miss—I miss again, but
I pick up, I hear from the you I miss—I flick light switches sitting
in front of fans. The graceful thing is cell phones last longer.
I don’t want to ever say you’re up again.
have a thing for kissing people’s brains. When I was eleven or so
years past the beginning of myself, I watched James Bond & mouthed
pillows in hotel rooms. I was most attracted to belly buttons. I
check out the last people, a mother & a daughter, five after
four, which is to say we were closed five minutes ago. I’m waiting
on the 12, Alee’s waiting on the 20. We’re talking about our lives—no,
we’re not talking about anything, which is on purpose, which is coworker
to coworker, & I know there’s a bus in five minutes to take me
closer to my apartment, to tomorrow, to you.
look up, awake, slowly & intentionally never, not gracefully—grace
is searching for itself, not on a cobbled step in some fever dream
tower—there is a blink. R calls & says he & R will be here
in ten minutes. I am in the bathroom, I am in the kitchen, I am switching
cans. Houston does the splits. I almost help them but I don’t. BB
King is dead. This is about falling apart.
a Leo and a vegan and a resident of Portland, Oregon. He
is also the author of the grocery-shopping-themed collection GREENS (Thunderclap
Press, 2012) and the chapbooks SAME OPPOSITE (Thunderclap
Press, 2010) and OURS MINE YOURS (Pity
Milk Press, 2014). Parker Tettleton is online at http://parker-augustlight.blogspot.com.