((apologies to anyone herein embarrassed. but i am a poet, so this statement silently precedes any of my works.))

I laugh through the 32 minutes, 9 seconds of
your sendings —  No, no! Laughter is resistance! You wore
a bubble right up ’til 1:49 into the intro, like the sticks and
c((h))ords covered inability, but you sing… distilled. My
smile draws question after question, unjustified, standing
on the platform between Down- and Uptown where neither
train opens doors, so we can’t even decipher the signs
identifying location. Don’t concern yourself, though, darlin’ —
my topography skills have improved and with most pastimes,
don’t we consider a master after 2 decades of practice? The
hatch door doesn’t lock, never did, so your dance with left
to distract from your spoon-scraping right would best be
transferred to other activity; Here, read this book, hold still
as best you can so your rail-straight spine can serve as easel
on which I’ll scribble my anti-anti slogans, just stop trying to
save yourself! Progress seems ionic when the shifts started so
small: A real-life “Can you spot the difference between these
pictures?” Oh, I know! Now he says “I won’t dick you over” before
sex! She wakes around three to feel his hand has shifted to cover
hers! He kisses her forehead, pulling her leg over him, and
“No, no. You’re fine. You’re fine. I think you’re fine.” The sun
isn’t warming, and I think it might be personal; I borrow
sweatshirt, cigarette, eyes rolled back & jewel of blood Jesus,
and wonder what happens in the sloughed-off six hours, peel
away a couple months, and the dotted line doesn’t fit you — trust
in my tailored instinct & this corduroy will cling in ((our)) no-time.
Dismantle, unclothe, sweat for love of subject, and be another
in line to bear honesty public better than private — I learned the
tactic at twelve and seem to select as such; See they tell us as
women that we habit beyond all else, that we should seek the
pattern of displeasure, and I’ve pinpointed a baker’s dozen,
solutionless, so I’d rather bake!, corner myself in any bar bearing
window seat, learn the  genus & species of wildflowers my grandmother
domesticates, anything other than find your fault. I want to coast,
watch your technique, and tether to that laugh, the rare one, head
fully back, trumpeting triumphant; No, there’s no cloth-hair
crevice here, thank G-d, just a night  I destroyed private property,
Leucanthemum vulgare, but managed one drink too many to keep
track of odd and even plucks, or steps on cobblestones, or minutes
passed in accidentally-interrupted family dinners, by which I mean
to say Sorry for direct command, but stop searching — two bumps
bent out and one in, dear, you’ll find no meaning in it.

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