you will bring a metronome / today / baking soda / it's happening again
you will bring a metronome
you will be liberated by my car crash death
you will sell all of our things
you will move to new jersey
you will get out of this city
you will rent a new apartment
you will buy new pots
you will try new recipes
you will drive a car
you will ride a bicycle
you will buy yourself flights from kayak.com
you will take guitar lessons
you will come to my grave
you will bring a metronome
you will turn the metronome on
you will leave the metronome
you will not come back for it
you will buy a new metronome
you will get a new boyfriend
you will have sex with him
you will get bored of having sex with him
you will be liberated by his car crash death
you will go to his grave
you will bring a metronome
today
i sew small holes into my jeans
and then i close them back up.
the plants watch.
they are happy here in the sun
in the part of the sun that reaches through our windows
and they look at me.
they look at me because i am sewing my jeans
and the plants understand things
but not why i am sewing my jeans or
how i even know how to sew
which i don't.
but i think it's pretty intuitive
like gardening
but these plants might disagree here
drowning in the water that i didn't feel like drinking.
on the balcony there are two birds
staring each other down
and i sit here wondering
if they are going to kiss
or start boxing.
the cat claws at the window and
the pigeons fly away together.
i try to find something to look at
on the internet
and the cat goes to sleep in a cardboard box.
it's 4:30 and it's almost dark and
i can't remember how anything else feels.
baking soda
everyone is two-faced
and kissing
barn animals included
the rooster woke us up
and the lamppost walked you home.
rubber appendages.
dogs drinking from fountains.
eight legs soaked in pigeon's blood.
this poem looks better in color but
your father used to clean his teeth
with baking soda
in mexico.
everyone there remembers me from
high school.
it's happening again
the plastic container is bent
like a rhombus.
i asked you to fill it up with pieces of
your hair
and face
you asked me how and i remembered that all the knives were
dirty as a direct result of yesterdays
multi-balcony pigeon revolt,
and when john glued all my moms scissors shut.
hitchcock was out protesting the new
new york city,
which is apparently just a little ways west
of the old one.
we watched a replay of it on tv.
grace kelly parachuted into rockefeller center
and that's when your dishwasher had a baby.
you asked me to get a pencil
and i found one with a big eraser.
you wrote on my face that i had loaded it all wrong and
that it wasn't the first time.
then you looked at my face and felt bad
and you decided to try and erase it but
instead of an eraser, there was a rock.
the rock was blue.
