Rich People Fuck Weird
A slip of paper
in an old note
book was written,
“Rich people fuck weird!”
No context. No worries.
Folded it. In my pocket. Sliding out the door, just in time for the night. Lorain Ave. it was the 90s. Brutalism westside. Everything was grey, always.
we wrote poems. In alleyways. She. Summer.
The punk shows, the indie girls. I still have that piece of paper.
Father’s Day, 2019
We do love. Abruptly.
Distant we. Apart.
We do love. Hopeful.
Estranged, convoluted.
We do love. With truth.
Genuine, honestly.
We do love. Broken.
Fractured, forgiven.
We do love. In spurts.
Moments in time.
We do love. Unspoken.
Enduring. Despite pain.
We do love. Somehow.
Bookshelves
Dreaming of bookshelves.
Stacks, spines read me.
Signed copy. Auction.
Gallery talk. My image.
Quote me brush stroke, dipped in red. Scratch.
Hugs, cheek kiss.
They don’t fucking care.
The work is genius. What?
Lecture series. Greyhaired, silver fox. Podium.
I’m dead.
