in the dusking

smell of stingray floaty still off-gassing
in cool-ant’s trunk

instead of ‘there’s no place like home’
it’s more like ‘there’s no place like liana is’
and i’ll click my heels together and
land where you are
i comment on the newly inherited sparkly shoes

passing calle verde street sign
this one’s for you kate and max greenstreet
(only, in spanish)

budgets are moral documents
(in reference to money spent on war, etc)
says the speaker on the radio
whose name i can’t remember
but whose brilliance is on point
while we make our way through
the valley where she often loses me
emory on the other end of the phone saying
if we were on skype
i’d pretend to feed you a cookie
and mica talks about the heat
joseph answers in his sultry voice
and baigz says he misses

i pass the imaginary mic
during the nope yep song
so liana chorus on the nope
and i chorus on the yep
(what if we re-wrote it
like: ever got dirt under yr nails? yep
ever worked on wall street? nope)

mystery dum dum flavor
from the front desk bowl
buttered popcorn
sugar-crunching under
my teeth in the parking lot
outside the windowless office where
i witnessed the crunching of numbers
towards a possible buying of future

two-and-a-half-week-old in my arms
baby-bird-lookin mostly sleeping
sometimes i sooth with a shhhhh sound
which i learned by watching lynn


santa fe night view as seen from our
scrambly climb up
in the dusking
big dipper emerges from our
rock perch
where we pass words back and forth
like snacks

about sorry and


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