everything you shout
            is a shame—

no time to hesitate, now

if you read scripture
you’ll get the picture
pen flowing hemoglobic ink
escaping from fissures

i saw a peddler
            back-peddling
while hail slowly rose above him

he was revered by no one
            and the closest thing
i have ever seen to a god

            or goddess yet—

your jackets are stained
your t-shirts are wet

and if this rain keeps
            falling
we’ll either have to
let all our loved ones
                        drown

or build a new ark—

if time flips the
                        hourglass
and the sun can cure
            wretched eyesight

then i’ll wear the most
comedically-shaped mask,
            disguising tragedy

because there’s no way
            one can look at you
torn to shreds,*

                        (confetti ribbon
                        with no party and no one to
clean up the mess

           [underpaid
             overture
             overshared,
             hysterical
             harpsichord])

*the way you slip and stumble,
                        float and fall (ad nauseam),

and keep a straight face.

You’ll never know a person fully
until you can sit down
and eat a mountain of salt with them

ask Willamina

well, we devoured it, hun

and pardon me,
may I be excused from the table?
I’m feeling ill

I’ll come back for seconds
once I’ve finished digesting.

My cellular device—an outdated
flip phone—took a shit
when I needed it most,
but right before it did
I managed to take down 17
contacts, lest I lose them
forever:

some lovers, a couple
family members, many
old friends (a few I don’t
even like anymore)

so now I have this post-it
note, full of names and numerals
and I’m squarely where I was
before.