I walk the purple carpet into your eye carrying the silver butter server but a truck rumbles by, leaving its black tire prints on my foot and old images the sound of banging screen doors on hot afternoons and a fly buzzing over the Kool-Aid spilled on the sink flicker, as reflections on the metal surface. Come in, you said, inside your paintings, inside the blood factory, inside the old songs that line your hands, inside eyes that change like a snowflake every second, inside spinach leaves holding that one piece of gravel, inside the whiskers of a cat, inside your old hat, and most of all inside your mouth where you grind the pigments with your teeth, painting with a broken bottle on the floor, and painting with an ostrich feather on the moon that rolls out of my mouth. You cannot let me walk inside you too long inside the veins where my small feet touch bottom. You must reach inside and pull me like a silver bullet from your arm.
I cannot wait for fall parties.
The invitations have begun to roll in.
I used to think I loved summer parties
until they got this year so sweaty and sad,
the whole world away at the shore,
sunk in sweet and salt.
you were supposed to save us
from spring but everyone just slumped
into you, sad sacks
pulling the shade down on an afternoon
of a few too many rounds.
Well, I won’t have another.
I’ll have fall. The fall of parties
for no reason, of shivering rooftops,
scuffed boots, scarves with cigarette holes.
I’ll warm your house.
I’ll snort your mulling spices.
I’ll stay too late, I’ll go on a beer run,
I’ll do anything
to stay in your dimly lit rooms
scrubbed clean of all their pity.