collect lovers like baseball cards: trade up trade up trade up
On an evening so close to morning that the aroma of coffee confuses the air, feet fumble over railroad tracks as the moon plays phone tag with another part of Brooklyn.
Glass is everywhere, crumbled like love letters.
Spiderman hides beneath the rubble as fists turn into paper, scissors, rocks.
What time is it now and does it matter that my hips are bloody wings beneath these layers and if I pick the scabs my complexion will weep.
We are plugged in even when we are not and why can’t sewage be romantic, since reflections can be found within its oil slick and the smell is no different than our breath in the morning or death. Or death. (or death)
I may only be alive because I am aware that you are next to me. Because I felt the wind from your lashes flap against your tinted skin. Because I asked for death last night and the line was busy.
This whole world is a wasteland so grab a corner and fold this earth into something neater.
The sky is freckled. And bodies can pretend they are amused due to the shared aroma of whiskey, banjoes in the background, lunges against loft walls, thrusts of confession.
The truth is love can only be mad if you strangle it daily.
This Brooklyn likes to top from the bottom. This Brooklyn cross-dresses only when the lighting is right. This Brooklyn is a tour guide through graffiti swamps. This Brooklyn likes to high-five strangers to push out the bad thoughts in [its] head.
* * *
[so what does this mean]
Go to Alaska. Order a pint. Sit in a corner. Connect straw to candle light and suck it in and suck it in and suck it in. Question the chosen decor. Fondle someone else’s foot with yours. Memorize the way she pauses. Grab a needle. Suction this night into its torso. Press it into your forearm that has been warned. Get high on evening. Get high on stories. Get high on something that can never be found again.
Aimee Herman 