On a promotional postcard over lunch, alone

There's a loveheart in the foam of my coffee holding together this table in a dry place w. untrimmed verges, concrete chipping into the asphalt.

I blame the drought so I drink like fishes do, which is to say they don't.

The fluff is falling scentless from trees so we're all fucked. Let's sing along, we're all fucked.

How or why to write a poem? At least I'll leave the word 'alienation' out, too many places to go at night. Sex helps, but brave new bodies close all around like doors and I've stopped knocking. There are just too many places, or at least one with psychedelic carpet and guitars dangerous as cats.

How are you dancing? It's not falling but we don't quite make it. This music is lidocaine and I'm spread thin between the floor and the ceiling.