Stephen Danos



never asked to be your tip jar | you never wanted charley horses | braying bareback through your
thighs | your riddles of age | [insert glue factory joke] | circle your contusions | in muscle dough |
Swedes call them thigh cookies | I sit on the couch | the sidekick to your host | never asked to be
your Boss Tweed | or your Springsteen allegory | your cannonball hailstorm | we were made to
be students | of deadweight philosophers | let’s get down with enigmas | do you think we will
survive antiquity | [cue background noise] | cars shushing by | their tires craft a new street |
defined by bowing like elderly knees | [insert pothole] | [insert neglectful road workers] | the
people too are worried about | [missing slide] | clot the hematoma | with palm bandana gauze |
play dead for the paramedics | become the car crash you were born into




day is the new night | snow the new blooming | lightning storm the old thundersnow | on days
when I pull anger out of a hat | on days dazing is primarily suspecting | a yew pines | wants to
spruce up fell ovules | pinecones are balled-up pigmy armadillos | on days ridged by skeletal
waltzes | frail dogs caterwaul | my ears ringing their caution | crisp waxdrums | on Days of Our
Lives they killed | off the villainess | on Day’s Inn’s website blue butterflies flutter | like delicate
salesmen buckling a saddle | to your back | while I mend the sky’s broken bones | siphon its blue
blood | force-feed it greeting cards and smoky marriage proposals | in its vegetated state | rest
assured | train wrecks are the new fixation | hope is the hottest scandal


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