MADE FOR YOU AND ME 1: hive Being (Stanzas 2016—part 40)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about necrophilia, gutter dogs, ass lips, genericized trademarks, l'Absurde, Sade Adu, cumshots in libraries, prison communication, Top-gun pilots
asshole so run through it has labia vacant-lot sunrise, a chained dog barking in the distance ducking loved ones who cannot but conjure dead loved ones bare chest braced for the tumbler’s quivering drip of condensation ketchup, onesie, Band-Aid, crockpot, Krazy Glue, Xerox, Kleenex, Tylenol we whisper around the dying milk cut with chalk water too aware that the fence he is building would rot walls beneath desks of private study rooms testify to climaxes Sade gritty in the windup radio of an iodine-tab bunker: “touching the very part of me, it's making my soul sing tearing the very heart of me, I'm crying out for more” always right there in each peeling polaroid the cigarettes that killed Granny entangled in pitying a person, never to realize that it is for the same problem you have all-night Ferris wheel— its drunk operator dozing in the Atlantic breeze trumpet notes Miles high— sides of cheek, neck even, toad with nascent melody to the battery slung through the bars attached is a goods-bearing thread reeled in by the destination cell trees provide the haven of shadow and home we tear off garments while dying deep pining for sex in the devout keeps out the Absurd sadness could stop him from lifting the tarp, ogling the corpse that foreign floater in your drink somehow stays with each dump a conquistador in the skins of the tribe that saved him Europe the derailed jaws of skid row so much dumpster food: soft bagels, full steaks, calamari sensing an eye in the peephole wisdom that stems from misreading flames crackling walls and ceilings around you, glass shatters in the distance a life plagued, in hindsight, by his failure to recognize his greatest talent: his closeted shame Navy pilots still in the new millennium get pumped for bars on leave, pushing needles down highways to the pulse of “Danger Zone” by Kenny Loggins banging a fresh cadaver, the last thing on one’s mind is catching something
This is a portion of an ongoing mosaic poem called Made for You and Me. This portion is from the first installment: hive Being (Stanzas 2016-2020). More specifically, it is from the 2016 portion of that five-part work.