at jfk

I feel like a piece of kelp
with a glass jaw
floating on a goth ocean
listening to sentimental christmas songs
unwillingly now I’m a cormorant
and they are forcing the songs down my throat
but I can’t open my mouth because my jaw is
broken.  Stupid solo bird-kelp not oblivious
to the idiocy of men. Six geese a-laying,
presesnting their butt tufts to the aggressive
ganders: this makes me want to weep.
She’s not pretty, skinny legs and fat cheeks, bug
eyes and relatively thick waist…I asked him
if she was beautiful and he said doubtfully
I guess. I look like an ash now.  Clothes as
smooth coatings for this depression, like
the red part on a bitter Advil. He won’t
be able to focus on her either.  She “isn’t an artist
of any kind,” as if that was a kind of boast.
Bounsouaysana.  A kind of rotten pacifier. His
egolust as a kind of machete cutting swaths
into people, blind infantile subway rat, that
hunched pose, the cravenness of dogs in
fear, where is that bold-as-love love
that keeps munching my dreams? We all
fall down.

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