I spent six months figuring out
how I could make our signal better, across the board.
I’m talking grand gestures, not just
that bullshit that Mark calls “primary gland secretion.”
It wasn’t until the third Tuesday in July
that I figured out that it all boils down
and tiny little transittors, made by real Italians.
You know, the kind
that are easy to make fun of and will still work hard.
It’s strange the things that come to mind when
you’re staring into the pit that your life has become, convinced that
when she said
“On ne changera pas,”
she really did mean that she wasn’t ever going to call again.
That she couldn’t transfer her emotions into a tangible form
for me to hold onto and keep myself warm at night. I was almost ready
to spit into that void, call her a bitch, and move uptown, but then
those honeyed thoughts came over me.
The answer is bees.
They’re going to
the way we see
I can feel it in my sternum.