In order not to follow

continual human involvement strands

my loose time political

covers my scalp.

In particular the traffic jams

that hover over

my apartment complex

with an alien inability

to link certain ideas together.

It’s too bad how hot you are.

When I see you I picture

someone’s heart

crying into a cellphone.

I don’t mean to get my hair

all over your pharmacy.

Whatever the deal is I screenplay

with pieces nobody recognizes.

I drink eleven hand grenades

to shed dead tears. To feel

included.

This is not where I leave you.