Tagged: the Sky

Gas Station Rose

walking out of a Shell station, a man
pulls a rose so fast from behind his back

that it startles the woman he’s with
causing her to jump back

the rose is skinny, erect, the way
it’s wrapped in tight plastic

i guess it’s the type of rose you get
at a convenience store gas station

the type a man does not intend
on buying, but does do anyway, to go

with his liter coke and bag of chips
maybe the rose is for his feelings

a small gesture for showing up. none
of us intend on feeling the way we do

do we? one moment so beautiful and
hot-blooded among fuel-pumps

we could explode and keep exploding
if only she’d flick her cigarette

the next so certain that there isn’t
a moon. there’s a hole in the ice

i could swim through

Concession Speech at Recycling Bin

wondering what to do
with life, as if
it has just shown up

as if it were
this plasticy thing
in my hand
at the recycling bin
with the trash can
there next to it

maybe I’ll just be grateful
for a closeness
to my dreams
as I am for the sun’s
beaches, as I am

for the sky
and some women
I never talk to

Columbus, Texas

I was unaware of the spaces you had claimed

And now when I close my eyes to drink
my lips stay dry and I am the desert
I itch and swirl like all of its sand
and am almost recognizable
at the posts of dehydrated soldiers
who see me and swear they just seen
Kat from The Parish flicking her skirt
with eyes hollowed out to the ocean
I remember your rooftop dressed
in awnings and icicles and how
far away it is, too far away to be shade
and these ripped up t-shirts
tied to my feet are burning through your smell

The stars behind your head are sitting on my chest