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don’t got no chalk
sleeping on the lamb, bringing
sting cotton
to palermo, first time
they snug and yet welted
that way
breeze nozzled odors
let’s you down on turf
like soh monkeys
huddled in sayonaraland, listen
to the yurts outside
the hotel, listen to her breathe
people nap and people sleep
i think it’s the same thing
mixing dugouts with skyscrapers
i think it’s the same thing
telling pies to the television pews
i think it’s the same thing
wondering what’s up with dirigibles
i think it’s the same thing
people call and then umpires call
i think it’s the same thing
the “shaggy set” and the “grunge set”
i think it’s the same thing
nothing much matters, deezo
skipping on rusty toe thimbles
preaching development arrest
to the perverse, shiny mortals
let the tie down the crinoline down
blue in the face at birth, and red
in the face much later, burping birth
over a shoulder of oiled carpal tunnel
down meredith street in naive ass park
it’s a type of calorie they don’t have just elsewhere
blending in finally, not feeling the mark, and belching
sun shitting over rose-colored, suggestive arbors