Sunday, January 02, 2011


We were inside a Canadian cabin
with a boot of Canadian Club
and no deck of cards and no dice.

The forecast had been correct
but we don't want to be the kind
to talk of weather.

We're going to die die die
which is something we joke about
but seems feasible.

The door hasn't budged in days
and a dirty patch of carpet
reminded me of something.

A rubber blanket weeps sex sweat:
we weren't in a cabin
we were in a motel.

The dirty patch of carpet is here
and the tan flecks of skin
from sun beating through a sweater.

Move to Memphis and fall in love
and fall in love with Memphis
a kind of Memphis torture.

Soft skin, a heated argument over soup
"You look like a bunch of girls,"
he said to he.

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