bridge to nowhere
lousy git gone square
said he'd motel hunt then whiskey his neck
sideways with me. We don't kiss.
We don't kiss unless I'm more gone than when I care.
We change our names. Wear feather boas,
imagine cue ball suicides & fashion suspension bridges
in our heads that'd take 10-15 years tops to
ribbon cutting ceremony. But Wallace skipped town on me.
He found a new juice & speaks less desperately. Roots and all now.
Making his own 'hood now.
it would be a miracle of poetry if you would do a sonnet! you should do one. i love "whiskey his neck"
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