The Next Morning
Let us go walk among the blue belles
in the blue shade under the oak limbs
and find a secluded spot
to vomit behind a tree.
Let us not talk.
Let us not crash our Pollocks into tree-trunks
pondering that sour taste of last night
dead in our mouths. You can’t wrap it all up
like a pollock in butcher paper.
Let’s just say that I did something horrible
and leave it at that because the last thing I remember was you
holding the mop and I never want to remember that again.
Let us talk about quantum entanglement
and skirt the difficult things until I can get my hands on a drink.
Positive ID
I went to identify my pants downtown
where the authorities had cruelly
eviscerated my pockets
and laid out in a disgusting array
the tattered napkins I’d been using for a handkerchief
and the dollar-seventeen in change
that was supposed to last until Thursday.
How awful and who else’s pants could these be?
There also were things found of a personal nature
but they escape my mind right now.
It’s easy to forget such details when everything—
I mean everything—
happens in a blur. Although,
would it be so bad if things happened faster?
I have too much time on my hands as is,
measuring myself up against naked men
tossing discuses and riding chariots around
Attic Red-Figure vases and casually
spearing one another to death,
in short, having a better time than me.
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