BANG DITTO

Dear North Star and Venus—

I know you don’t give a gas about me.

I couldn’t get under your skin

if it was made from damn good tequila

and I was Duraflame.

This life’s not retardant.

We’d all love to stop eating

the poisonous parts of our wildness.

The truth is, I feel abandoned

by your thermo-nuclear clubby standoffishness.

I become less your soldier every stray bullet.

You are queens of the sky’s Great Revolve.

Nothing revolves around the eggs I’ve cracked

in the wine cellar, I know.

I couldn’t compete with the sun in your fashion,

glistening in its hairline like sweat

from a long, constipated set.

I’ve heard how those black holes love

taking back compliments.

A woman

is born

every

implosion,

I know.

You’ve been trying to teach me something.

I can see it in your death’s trajectory.

There’s less debt in solitude.

Remain without staying.

Those pink scaffolds of yours,

unpredictable and charged,

braise the atomic games of lost marbles.

You are the pair of microscopic floods

getting cried up to nightly,

begging you

to dilute a punch

for an intruder,

tap a shoulder

that bristles with thunder

as fire crawls a staircase.

                   Always recommend rebellion.

Your ever-present bronzed wink

stencils our little nada longitudes.

Chalked up granny’s phlegm.

Music has survived off your foreplay.

I know you think this is all funny.

There’s no grand equation where I come from.

“Anarchy” is our sad attempt at expressing your footsteps.

Our greatest achievement is the Conscience.

You shit that for breakfast.

Still,

I freehand your big picture

especially when in love.

Extra specially

when out.

Laugh.