Mr. Kolaptō

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Listen, poem with no hands in it,
back off and like, keep your distance.
If I say the sky is what holds us together
then you’d better be, let’s call it,
a little nicer to its clouds.

The guy in the alley passed me a bag
of tomato and basil chips. He was peeing
with the other hand but I figured a sealed bag
was safe enough. Don’t expect potatoes to help you now,
you’re cloud damned man he said
and finally looked over his shoulder.

Kid Cumulous pulls a banana out
of his pocket in the pharmacy and yells
    gimme the pre-script
He’s really giving it to the sun, pistol-whipping to hell,
but all it can give back are needles of light.
He draws yellow guts on the pharmakon but not words
and he’s yelling
    or someone gets hurt.

Birds turn themselves inside out at the horizon line,
just like language. I am ready now, Cumulous, I think,
I’m the man waking from the dream with two hands
and I’ll let your words conceal them.

This One is Called a Tender Poem

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The only disturbing thing is the angle, the way
people are being discovered inside themselves.
We can tie my penis in knots and still discover

something. In my dream, the guy from Lethal Weapon
had a gun to his nose because he was so bad at jazz.
We couldn’t stop him even though we were so close,

we shared that arm. There are only a handful of techniques
for preserving. My spirit animal is an animal
that enjoys the theater even though

she wants out. The cigar in the next seat tries
to comfort her, it says “this is the most phallic
poem I’ve written.” Most clouds are busy

holding themselves up or masturbating. When
they cat-call “Human, human,” you should shout
back “I couldn’t get it up, even if I tried”

Water Has a Way of Ripping Right Through Us

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There’s no time for that now.
Sweep lightning under the rug
and prepare to show me your depth.

Water has a hard time holding itself together.
Even when it seems like it’s just sitting there,
it is putting forth great effort.

High five kindred spirit! High five snowman!
High five sky! The plan for now:
find an apartment, cry.

Today, we will take off all our bandages
and rub our fresh skin against each other.
We would wash away easily,

sprout new drawers and cabinets, whisper
through our pores.
The plan for now: cry, find a dog, cry.

Psalm Footed Snakes

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