It’s half past eleven, so
we find an epileptic street light & swap sweat
before I put my hands in your pockets &
tell you I feel like I’m in Riyadh with a roughcast of redsand on my tongue and camel skin beneath my feet
Do you hear that? I tell you to
stop grinding your teeth
between a mouthful of cheeks
& then we’re moving,
we’re walking through Middletown past seedy smoke shops and White nationalist collectives
& I’m trying to find an amicable way to say, again
Fucker, please stop grinding your fucking teeth but
the feeling passes when moonlight catches your devilfish earring and I forget how to breathe
Dreamscapes behind my eyelids. Come in my hair.
I stand up. Fall back down. No. Wait, yes. Billy. Billy—
Do you hear that? I’m not sure.
A bald man taps on the window (Check your engine light)
& then he is gone. Replaced. There’s fucking come in my hair.
I twist the tap. Grab a toothpick. Good. It’s working; I’m combing
the come from my hair with a toothpick and there’s a bald man in the mirror.
Oh no. Blink twice. Take a picture. He’s there; now he’s gone.
IN FRONT OF THE FALAFEL FOOD TRUCK
WHAT WILL YOU HAVE, SIR WHAT WILL YOU
HAVE I’M NOT QUITE SURE I AM NOT QUITE
SURE I GO FOR THE HUMMUS WRAP.
IT IS DELIGHTFUL BUT ALAS I HAVE
NOT MASTERED THE ART OF PULLING
ICEBERG FROM TEETH
DO YOU HEAR ME,
FALAFEL MAN I CANNOT EAT THIS
HE DOES NOT GIVE ME A REFUND
HOW VERY DISAPPOINTING!