1. I DO NOT KNOW MUCH ABOUT LOVE
but i type your name on
my first attempt at Wordle every morning
even though there aren't enough vowels
in it to appease my appetite for language
the economy of language at breakfast,
you see, is a lot like wartime rationing
when one is this heroically lonely,
almost martyrish— but not quite
i snort a few white lines from the newspaper:
the ethos of a cigarette butt
that had burnt a bridge is parallel
to a Grecian nose that has succumbed
to twenty-first century rhinoplasty
the horoscopes are always catastrophic:
monotony is an epidemic in fashion–
everybody moves through the city
infected yet unaffected;
nameless oval flowers sprout
during odd equinoxes from
between the envelopes of concrete
people name flowers to become god,
but they are only a dying one at best
everyone who has soles on their feet
walks on the gravel and
orphaned flowers in reconnaissance
humour a horizon of pulp and prayers
where the roots cling to their grave;
their home is now short of one letter.
you're the only man with soles on his feet
who has always jumped over
—not cosmically rather consciously–
to avoid what has now become
the funeral of flowers
the Chile-shaped birthmark on your shin
is as long as its coast on my atlas is
and your lashes remind me
of the violin strings of the violin
in the 7th grade that I never played;
this constant human need to find
familiarity in the new is agonizing
and yet
i look for your rib among mine,
for specks of my dirt under your nails–
you are clawing away at my loneliness
i may not know much about love
but my bellybutton sommersaults
every time you laugh aloud
at my corny jokes about maize
every morning,
with the symphony
of teeth-whitening strips around my gums,
'AUDIO' and 'ADIEU'
would have to wait;
your name may not be on Wordle's list,
but you are the only dictionary i've ever read
from one cover to the next.
my first attempt at Wordle every morning
even though there aren't enough vowels
in it to appease my appetite for language
the economy of language at breakfast,
you see, is a lot like wartime rationing
when one is this heroically lonely,
almost martyrish— but not quite
i snort a few white lines from the newspaper:
the ethos of a cigarette butt
that had burnt a bridge is parallel
to a Grecian nose that has succumbed
to twenty-first century rhinoplasty
the horoscopes are always catastrophic:
monotony is an epidemic in fashion–
everybody moves through the city
infected yet unaffected;
nameless oval flowers sprout
during odd equinoxes from
between the envelopes of concrete
people name flowers to become god,
but they are only a dying one at best
everyone who has soles on their feet
walks on the gravel and
orphaned flowers in reconnaissance
humour a horizon of pulp and prayers
where the roots cling to their grave;
their home is now short of one letter.
you're the only man with soles on his feet
who has always jumped over
—not cosmically rather consciously–
to avoid what has now become
the funeral of flowers
the Chile-shaped birthmark on your shin
is as long as its coast on my atlas is
and your lashes remind me
of the violin strings of the violin
in the 7th grade that I never played;
this constant human need to find
familiarity in the new is agonizing
and yet
i look for your rib among mine,
for specks of my dirt under your nails–
you are clawing away at my loneliness
i may not know much about love
but my bellybutton sommersaults
every time you laugh aloud
at my corny jokes about maize
every morning,
with the symphony
of teeth-whitening strips around my gums,
'AUDIO' and 'ADIEU'
would have to wait;
your name may not be on Wordle's list,
but you are the only dictionary i've ever read
from one cover to the next.
