At Great Speeds

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Relicts

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The air, this morning, is
a perfectly
ripe honeydew melon. I am eating
without eating,
delicious fruit. The place where
my face fits in
the hollow of your neck
is a gingersnap. It
wakes me up and then
satiates me. There are nine
butterflies
on this bush, and they
rise up in a shimmery cloud
everytime I walk by
and then settle
wings open
drinking nectar and
inviting the sun. Everything
feasts on everything. This is how
it is today and how
I remember it being
and how it was
until it wasn't or
until it is again. I don't know
for sure. You
let me know. Let me know please
the story
behind it all.
Until then
honeydew, gingersnap, nectar, feast.

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The fuck it is, Jeanina says. And she is right. I
say Pass, because
whathefuckdoiknow

about sitting, writing, in my underwear
loathing my rolls
wondering if they will go away

with a good bleed
or when its less humid
and I cut the shit with the chips and the salt
or two months, sober, the exact time it took to do
this damage
backwards

I'm just trolling. Pass. What the
fuckdoIknow
about praying, and talking to God
meditation:
as I understand Him. 

I'll just sit here and look at your
ankle monitors.

You, Jeanina. Jesus for you.