Bits: because I am little, and my favorite things are too.

We came to love
the music the men
made up on the roofs
with their a.m. radios and
saturday morning
staple guns.
I think sloppy drunks.
When they are sloppy drunk.
Love sloppy drunks.
This is the part
of the story, when
the seagull swoops
down and steals
your churro.
The broken
winged bird
has no way
of ending itself.
The man in the theater
carried a weapon in his own pocket
and waited for laughter to muffle
his footsteps and the pistol blast
at the back of Abraham’s last
living head.
Picnics are occurring.
It’s nice, the idea
of any two people
being under
the same rain.
A bird takes a sandy bagel
in its beak, flies up with it
and at some point
just drops it on the beach.
I am someone that heard you, somehow.
shaking everyone’s shaking
hands wrapped around
street lights that
comfortably walk
down our cheekbones
like horses.
He had micro gerth
and the happiest hands,
super good at fishing
and pulling out the poplars
that would have died anyway.
To find you sleeping
is the subtlest epiphany
of hope.
The way in which we call rooms
that we are in alone empty
She bought him shoelaces
t-shirts and a suit because
he had no sexy clothes and
they spray painted the
shoelaces and t-shirts
she said, he doesn’t even
have any sexy clothes!


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