When this house is quiet my hands move slowly
and usually nothing comes from them.
I sit and sit and sit and sit and sit and sit,
write twenty failed first lines and murder them all.
There are half empty cups everywhere;
you are right about that.
Tomorrow’s problems are growing in my head;
I dream up wolves to swallow them.
They have large teeth and angry backs;
when they are done eating tomorrow
they turn on me
their paws falling like Dresden bombs.
I have no desire to be eaten
so I dream them into rollerskating ladies in bikinis
and hot pant go go dancing party boys.
We stagger like ten pins
and drink other people’s beer all night
until they turn on the house lights and kick us out
burning our beauty.
We liquid ourselves out onto the street,
slide into each other’s skin,
melt into each other’s mouths.
The sun scratches its wet paws at the glass,
the purple of the night sky breaking into almost morning blue.
This poem can go fuck itself,
my hands are slow dancing a drunk sunrise with you.