From a Floor In Cambridge, Mass

Published in NOO Journal

My ex bought my underwear at Louis. Those made me
Feel fine, like a high muck-a-muck. Now I ache
For obsolete technology. Eggbeaters at eight
O'clock, Captain! Closer, please, let me visit your tear-
Jerking breasts. Your spot-welds are freckles? No? Round
Way other? Sorry, I'm considerably less
Person than then. The control room doesn't seem
To be on a first name basis with the thunk tank.
I sprawl genre style—has my wattle bonked my head?
The blackbirds that live in the chimney sound like
Passing bells. Most Cantabrigians share
The trait of one eye smack in the middle of their face,
Which gives a man a frank appreciation
For his neighbors—the brewer, the baker, the cable
Provider. Excuse my chronic score but how else
Can I cue you how to feel about me: Spooked? Tender
As a nightstick? Beside yourself astride me?
Here's my advice—Never sleep with a man called Mom.
And yet I'm less more in the flesh than I am in your
Flesh, blotter, Rolodex, manifest content, watch list,
Syllabus. Don't fret; I'm looking for my key. Passé-
Partout? Down here on the floor one can see
The tigers in the oak. They keep mockingbirds at bay.
I so wish to believe that this, our exchange, that this
Is a crucial jiffy in the record of traditional free jazz.
Can you feel? Downstairs? Brushed drums, xylo,
Occasional saw. That's my cha-cha. Can you feel?