Already February and he hasn’t even nailed
a single boxing glove to the wall. Because
he kept putting his head inside a white rock
he missed his appointment with clouds
so the clouds wrote dismissive surveys.
The reason you never see black birds
at symphonies is orchestral music
makes them explode. Because everything
is cash and carry, he crossed out the words
so you’d read them, slept in castles
and cardboard boxes simultaneously.
The last thing that came out of Basquiat
was a beautiful pink foam. Not a crown
or a copyright, not a skeleton riding a skeleton horse.
Was he trying to disprove his body
was a dream forgery? He broke off
his father’s esophagus but it grew back.
On tuesdays his vomit was entirely caviar,
wednesdays XXXXXX. You couldn’t touch him
without getting smeared with money.
Between everything and nothingness:
a pair of mink handcuffs. The hour passed
while he dried under the wingbeats
of gnats and televisions
tense as the interval between hiccups
then normal service resumed. Appreciating.
A formless thing made entirely of thorns
to be swallowed
