Spike Lee, caped like Zorro, struts over the threshold, his left arm draped around Lina Wertmuller. Lina feeds a dog-eared copy of Swept Away By An Unusual Destiny in the Blue Sea of August into his mouth

Bob Marley stands too close to you, a red-eared slider perches like a yarmulke on his head. He speaks through lips dangling a massive spliff, “Do not lose your head, mon, you are not really here.”

I draw your location on my thighs. It takes up both legs; it’s far. I think about showing you but something comes up. The phone rings. I tell her I don’t want to donate to the PBA.

My skeleton, mine all mine

a pit-bull or a rottweiler or something like that

Somniloquies rise like the drowned their lungfuls of air ripple as indecipherable a vision translucent as halite in opaque huelessness the night of it meandering breath is the sea rote I float to the pupil wade the green iris shut in its eyelid …

The fretting hand sought/ half-tone increments lost in the dreams of reason-- I threw my arms into the air while you stopped me/ cold fire fanning at the corner of the room.

I almost forgot. Her nipples taste like that syrup from a can of peaches. The kind you aren’t supposed to eat if you are 18 or older. The kind that adds baggage to the hips and I’m certainly not about to take out an insurance policy on my ass.