So long for now. You'll be missed.


SECURE BULKHEAD CORRECTLY
for Schiff and Twemlow


Spy vs. Spy Guy, spineless chatterbox,
you depress me. Slot A was taken, Pup Tittle
barked wrongheaded at Pliny (the middlin’)
who smiled, “I am here. I am here.”

And these are the days of great freakin’
emotional depth. When friends jump ship.
The boat to Chi-town has paddles and gladhands
instead of oars. Most mothers advise against.

The two pieces of wood must mate
at the central, adjacent to the bulkhead
of the bent hull. Semen must be utilized
to make spacy babies, but that comes later.

Now it’s the gotta move thing. Gotta run
by the chicken salad. Gotta molar the bug
juice. We are so digital we meet
at the Staples center. We inherit office stuff.

Y’all are a closed system. Dangerous
and spin-kicky, you light up faery-rings (glittery)
while attempting maximum capacity.
Caught between two lives worth living.

Upward in a field. A direction, not stage
or assembly, not daisies, not panoply, simply
a motioning toward. You’ve been very good to me.
No, wait. I take that back. I was completely wrong.