“Hello Means Goodnight”

My house is an ellipse–

a home without an edge.

I’m keen to bark at my girl’s heels,

lick her kneeballs,

cradle her love ladle…

whatever the case may be.

Chicken scrap dinner table barters

if I’m a good boy.


Or I thumb through her underpants catalogue

where sex is sold solidly two dimensional

and comes with a free tote bag.

Internal rhyme is a crime of fashion,

taken out of context like a hairpiece,

a hex-feast of grab bag vernacular

rotting in my brain.


I’m bored of curves and wet crevices;

I’m tired of weddings,

of funerals,

of funnel cakes,

of crock pot beef,

and of caring about fleece sales

and programming the T.V.

to record feats of anorexic

daring-do:

collagen collages in high def.

(Definitely no more absolutes)

Tired of underused basement stairs

and credit card bills,

always credit card bills.


I don’t dream of colonized children

hanging from my limbs like Spanish moss.


I’m putting her heart in a bag

and hailing a cab from the front porch.

Chris

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4 responses to ““Hello Means Goodnight”

  1. Phenomenal!

  2. mmmhmm. i really like this!

  3. i missed this post somehow — this has bite — it stings a little — it’s very good — you’re a ridiculously talented writer my friend

    • silenceinarchitecture

      Your “thanks for inflating my ego” checks are in the mail! Haha.

      No, thank you all for your comments.

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