Last Stand in Austin

Vulgar is intimacy,
without the intimacy.

Oh, can you see me?
Do you mind if we leave the music playing,
in this empty apartment?


We looked out at the fledgling city
from the patio at the Double Tree;
swam in the springs, asking,
“Have you touched bottom yet?”

I’ll try just one more time,
I’ll clap that
mosquito to death in the
air—catch its anonymous
blood in my palms,

the poor bastard
dead in my hands,
its carpets unvaccuumed
its bosomy wife out to play.

I’m sorry I’m sorry
I left this place
so undone, a broken
home never made,
never fixed, never known.

Didn’t help that you left
before I boxed it all up.


So goodbye Austin, goodbye ashtray
goodbye flip-flops and sun,
you were the only friend of mine who
knew more about the Senate than
I did and it pissed me off.


I’m gonna lie down now,
gonna hit the battie,
listen to the music from the closet,
like it’s some kind of monster
I forgot to pack but
didn’t want anyway.

I’m lying here totally naked
naked to the cardinals,
naked to 3:30,
naked to the white-winged doves,
naked to Texas,
however big it might be,
high in this empty apartment,
my parents down the road
on the fifteenth floor.

Oh, cardinal of Missouri,
have we met before?
Are you on a path
to migration?
To citizenship?
Do you care if I
touch myself
along the creek,
as I watch the eagle work?

Let me reach beneath
your patience as I
imagine the Earth
from orbit, as I
climb in the snow, as I
mark my territory, as I
drink myself to death
in this desert.

Can I piss in your
foreign shores? Can I
get a blue card? Fuck you
mother earth fuck the tides
fuck the moon and fuck formosa.

I spend my final days
among the emaciated
sheep at Bighorn,
in last place, stroking
my handle bars,
thinking back to when I
looked at the horizon,
and saw nothing
but air.

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