wait just a second now
here’s the birth, nine months post nativity
postal tongues
poster factories
hey, I know, let’s start a war in old man johnson’s barn

I used to narrate the songs I was driving, but I take the bus these days

I used to pull the rickshaw
offer to cut people’s hair
but it always seemed obvious to me that I was up to no good

each driver’s profile as they go past
some of them moving too fast

fisher price friends
you’re not the man they hoped you’d grow up to be

no one is ever going to like you fucking their daughter

pages with words are different than blank pages
even before opened
go on, look, I’ll wait

the word smolt wants to be in this poem
it wants to sound more like comic book fire than a fish

you’ve never had this thought about me:
“maybe I’ll wait an hour, he might be hung over”

we want guitars best
we want that lone person walking in a vast space look
we want to pretend to want to hurry home
we want to be nervous sometimes
we want some people to be homeless
we want to name streets after martin luther king, but we don’t want him back
we want people to look like famous people for some reason
we want to say goodbye not long after
we want to wear old people’s shoes
we want sick children
we want paris in jail
we want skin
we want sinners eating t.v. dinners
we want sun hats
we want stalkers
we want someone to know so we can tell them they’re wrong
we want more skin