One

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

Two

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.

Fucker.

Three

DESCENDING

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!