when you wake up hungover and want to write about destiny:
every word, so slow to come, is destiny to say
nothing can be unsaid until you scrap out the worst
parts but stop the cart keep rolling,
the only form, sounded out by tenzing the throat-singer, can
be a starstretched poem emptied out pouring quiet:
whether it’s good or bad it’s still your destiny and you’re still hungover.
go and find.
If you could not see me for seven years more
would you pop off facebook and leave me alone
would I have to seek you in the sage hollow fair
or would you just text me later
confront the ugly-faced gremlin who says everything you do is stupid
and wave your genitals at him in the crudest way
A half-eaten greyfut
it wasn’t very good
but then again, what did you expect? a grapefruit?