all of the shit thick world is in monthly storage

I have bags and bags
and bags
of pitchdrunk nights,
fond mornings,
folded clothes collecting dust
and the sharp certain corners
of fear
and fear
of fear
tucked under
my fingernails
my mouth
cannot reach.

I expect
the sex-grunt of brakes
on my private street
to be the neighbors loving too hard.

my life swings on pages
my shoulders cut themselves
and this
is therapy
and calling my mother
is therapy
and breathing out
ash
is therapy
but so
is eye contact
with strangers
and sipping fake
absinthe
and wearing fake
smells
nails
and loving the neighbors too hard.

Therapy.

a prescription for moaning
does not exist.

but neither does God
and people
prescribe him
all the time.

I'm undergoing
therapy
for watchful violence.
I watch people.
They're violent.
all the time.

If mothers would take
the task of teaching
daughters
one foot
in front
of
the
other
other
other
other

oo

then billions of hips
would get shifting o
and tricking o
God into thinking
we need no miracles or
therapy or
mirrors or
theracles.

oo
theracles.

o useless o

trashmen laughing at their fingers
useless nights

thickwithwater
damaged
financial papers






far away fingers









Gd


has


his


hips


missing Gdhashis mind missing
and bags and bags and bags
and bags
and bags bags bags bags bags
of other people's
shit
thick
in his attic.
He's too nice to say no.