sentences are slipperier here.
articulating
i don’t like long sleeve shirts because
i do like three hundred sixty degrees of pinwheelability,
so i can shadow-serve in the bathroom by the beach
volleyball tournament where we came in fifth and the whole time i wished i wasn’t going
to be buttoned up later that night. all the way to the top button.
i do not like top buttons because top buttons imply ties and
i really do like savoring leonine neck cracks, no hands, just flying
hair and tracheal thunderclaps—relief in succession like anal beads
or newton’s cradles skipped down sewer mains—yet i shrug it all off
with pride unleashed, teeth to the breeze above you and those damn ties
flapping half-mast in warm, dry winds or sighs from all sides.
so thank you, for keeping me in mind, but i don’t like turtlenecks.
they’re as coarse as mine’s tender. i prefer raw motion and
i’ve rolled up my sleeves. i’m hungry.
outrospection
peer up at conjoined skylines, upend our stoic ceiling. see the ever-re-sculpting anti-city, where no one ever stargazes.
. . .
the spaces between solids,
the liquid's lapping lapses,
the noble gaps of gasses,
are all that really matter.