Baby, America

You stand in the middle of the rain,
Tornado-hair, big lips like Mrs. Celebrity.
I thought I could see your heart
Outside your pink-white peach chest,
Rub my eyes, you stopped drinking wine
Since the bird babies fell from the sky
Like an m night shyamalan film that was actually
Good this time.

I thought I could see your heart
Outside your pink white chest,
Rub my eyes, you touch my fingernails
Say its the softest part of new york
Did you forget about the bee wings?
I drink hot red wine while the birds fall
From a sky, Tarantino will make 2 mil
Off my thoughts and I won’t see one
Penny.

I got stuck inside someone else’s mind,
It is the fake sunshine serotonin, smile
But a smile like britney spears. We know she’s
Not well, but we hold her up to the sky, shining
I know she doesn’t want to.

You stand in the middle of the hurricane,
Big blue eyes so scared like Mrs. America.
I knew I saw your heart
Outside your pink chest,
Kiss me, baby, before the metal birds fall from the sky
Before britney cries again, I say, i love you
But it sounds so sad like an angel far away
God god god
God, you made it all so hard, the big cold metal
Bullets, i don’t care for the kids dying of cancer,
But you know, god wouldn’t do this
Stop. columbine destroyed us all, hollywood did it too, metaphorically of course
Unless you got the bullet, then it’s real, it’s real, it’s real.
only the clock god will say, it’s your turn for the bullet, it’s real for you
for the tv, looks so pretty, makes good tv, you’ll make good tv.
celebrity.

(how to) Continue On (the moon)

You never looked like the moon
Had I always been good at turning the conversation
upside-down to me, about me?
I get so ashamed that Ashbery is sitting on a table
covered in wax, he says something about big bad hollywood, the parallel
universe of tiny baby little new york,
a big tree covered in yellow acorns, he reads my poetry
and he thinks it’s funny, the bad kind of funny louis ck present-day, the cackle squad, always invoking
his echo, he will say.
You never looked like the moon?
A big crater in the space-sky, backlit by somebody else’s
flashlight, why would anyone want to look like the moon he asks,
as if I am supposed to know, am I supposed to know?
Are you proud of what a moon sees of you, tiny new york?
He asks me once, until he is melted all the way through to bone, his mouth
waxed out of his own face, tiny puddled fingers, a body stew, wax everywhere now
even on the moon.