Mornings in sweet grass

Am I good looking,

the smoke coughs

while I click through

leathered bags of flesh

that can be pounded and

still rebound

and she undresses and redresses

in front of a dirtied mirror

which is just sand

ground up into her

and she is ground up into me

later on

when I’m less soft

and silent

and not seeing myself

in the background

of glass

and not getting a good look

at the

wrinkled wear of rawhide

and uncut hair that makes

for a night in the wild woods

*

Can you be mad

enough at the world

to make it reply

with a volcano

or a hurricane

that it is sorry

for not having anything better for you

and you

for not having anything better for it

besides yourself,

which no doubt

is part of the problem,

and you reply with a volcano zit

and a hurricane leaf blower

that the world created you

so it was all its fault

and you were blameless

in this eventual accident

of nothing fucking something

like the whole shebang

were an adulterous relationship

that crashed to form you

and the world would be silent

because you would be too

and because there were

still more yous to mould

out of you

while you watch everything

crumble and burn and drown

in volcanoes and hurricanes

and hear the yous

sound a lot like mes

by squealing over the

crumbling and burning and drowning,

that they are owed something

just for being here

and this place

– wreaked, warm, wet –

gives them their life

by taking it

the moment when the world

is just as mad as you