To the Zippy Degenerate Who Stole My Housekey

There are rooms I cannot enter for fear
of losing what threadbare courage I have left
to shoot you dead with, to punctuate the tension and

thereby usher us into a circumstance misunderstood
as an erasure of darkness. This isn’t a confession.
I have made confessions in the past and discovered

it’s just another room for people to hover one above
the minimum word count. And all those pictures
of plastic women. It’s a body predetermined

to dissolve, but you know that already from sources
of rumor, salient themes of repetition and desire,
and something like an unfocused shot of a woman

waving on a beach in the flickering autumn. Anyways
it all happens on the ebb tide so gather your memo-
robilia and your finalized ensemble of phrases to

delicately express the purpose of your own life
and meet me there around midnight. Try not
to get sand on the carpet as you step into the room.


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