I could marry Shakira, I admire her truthfulness
I could slick back my hair like a rockabilly
become streamlined
it might help me emotionally
the old people in the national archives
are looking for precedent
I am sincere, since I am here
investing too much hope in wordplay
the smog is rolling in all the time (not a metaphor)
whisky is a cliche, and I have none anyway
what else is there to buy to make me
A BONA FIDE MAN
caps lock keeps me up at night
dry elbows
biting my fingers as a kind of advice
sleep climbs into my bed: a crippled heavyweight, retired.
half a shandy and I’m anyone’s
a packet of peanuts and I’m yours
give me a week or two
I’ll write about EMOTIONS