King of the Portico

Sitting on rooftops,

slingin ringers into the can

from two and a half stories up.

A board goes for an ollie.

Okay, am I gonna ruin this one in the middle

like it was a good idea?

I haven’t really written since April. I’ve made a few songs (total bangers), published a couple of books, hell I’ve painted. I’ve been painting for three months and gaming. oof. But I said most, if not all, I wanted to say at this moment, probably for a couple pockets full of moments.

I’ve got time to spare.

The cat on the wall peers over my shoulder,

hunting for a succulent turn of phrase,

a morsel of immediacy,

a newborn moth,

still bursting with nibbled leaves.

Please,

I’m the one in the pangs.

A brass knocker in a crystal bell,

I’m scared to bare my fangs.

When I hear someone at my door,

I wait thirty minutes,

then ask a neighbor “Who rang?”

What am I changing?

I heard that this is it.

We’re too late.

We must bathe in the wake of the iceberg lake.

What does poetry even do

that a journal and therapy cannot?

Nobody?

What?

Okay, so I should get off the stage?

Right, okay.