June 11 - 13

June 11

sometimes these things are just supposed to be known
when the green shutters smash themselves
in the aching yellow morning

sometimes these things are just supposed to be
as I rise and shake winter eyelashes
left as gifts on my pillows

sometimes these things are just supposed to
roll down like skulls and carrots in my garden
mixed together in my dinner stew

sometimes these things are just supposed
partially assumed when children trick
or treat my house with toilet paper

sometimes these things are just
and I don’t burn without|
hatred to guide me

sometimes these things are
the way I left them when I come home
ghosts occupied elsewhere

sometimes these things
decide to be a person knocking
on the porch in slanted sun

sometimes these
remains get slung up
and I’m left alone

sometimes
I’m
not

Loop 1

Bryan Adams’s “Summer of ‘69” off the radio
looped back & forth, rewind & repeat
I hear the ghost of you –

James Bond movies recorded from TBS, here
your face merges in all incarnations looking nothing,
yet everything, like them –

Beatles vinyls, sun-warped, rivering half voices
too fast, too slow, whiskering the needle across
grooves, recycling the grays of your face –

Eared in all these books, barked
in all the doggedness, like your stubborn
sidehauling arms pushing everything off the shelf –

In this one lonely Betamax
all the fuck alone in my basement
with no idea how I got it.

Loop 2
off the radio
looped back &
I hear

movies recorded
in all incarnations
like them

riveting half
too slow
grays of your face

in all these
your stubborn
arms pushing

this one
alone in
idea

Loop 3
off
&
hear

recorded
incarnations
like

riveting
slow
grays

all
your
pushing

one
alone

Loop 4
hear

recorded

slow

all

alone