Step with me over the black oil and keep your sandals
on. Walk with me to those tables, sit with me on the
stickered bench, quiet like the streets at noon on the
hottest day of the year. Watch the needles on the ground
and don’t mind that old burned spoon. Give me your hand
and accompany me to this crab grass plain in the desert
air, where we’re going to find something better by the hour
even if it’s the sweat on my brow and the flaked skin on your
shoulder. Love with me in the heat of the middle of this basin
of fire and sin, sin with your arm over my eyes. Laugh
with me in heaved sighs. Come with me to the inside, to the
old place full of blackened death and low low light. Give me
your hand, give me your hand. I don’t know everything but
I know a lot, you know a lot, together we know more than
is good for us. Inside it’s colder and on the far wall it’s just
a lot of fucking old bones. I know more about the fucking old
bones than I’ll tell you. My poetry is bullshit from the heart
where everything should really be from. Read the placard
about those old bones to me. I think a wall of our home
would look nice with lots of skulls on it. Steal these bones
with me, they find them in the ground and ownership is
what we make of it, the alive and the dead. You may own
my bones when I am dead. May I own yours?