The silver lake smogs, says
be shitty with me. Or
a lard hoards the poker chips.
The friend of the backbeat deteriorates
in Starbucks for an hour.
One hand waves
a red piece of paper. Another
plays my throat like a clarinet.
One of those days projectile vomits.
The April issue is smashed on Pernod.
A rain drives home, just like anyone. Kisses
his wife, if there is one.
The Ouija board surfs the Jacuzzi swell.
Two alcoholics bubble in their biohazard suits.
Cacti bloom where the anchorage sank.
I smash my head against a shoulder blade.
I breast my plate around a bulwark in snow.
The buildings beyond those buildings are old.
Someone sucks foam while I waste awhile.
Restless knead in this moment. Sentences
fall out of the dark, wolf manna and cerveza.
I’ve lost platelets to the fire.
Rolling heads have no time to think.
Different clits scramble egg.
Cheshire cats moon.
The splatter is not ketchup, the spatter
not not seed.
Godspeed is slow to process.
Skeletons decode the bull.
The places left begin to think.
Pills take off.
Boona Daroom is 29. His poetry has appeared in SOFTBLOW, LIT and other places. He lives in Brooklyn.