In the Rockaway

Blaze the trail, but remain incognito,
The Doctors told me from photocopied
Scripts. Do you find yourself staring
Long and having grandiose thoughts

During sunsets? To which I replied,
I believe the hash was laced with soap,
And evening never cautioned me
Against adding Yirgacheffe to my pint

Of warm milk. Am I going to die
If I fall asleep? Would have blown
My cover. So I told them I awoke
An acquantance at the witching hour

And forced him to listen to Cake’s
Most recent LP on the thirteenth floor
Overlooking a blackened suburb
Of columns and chic Clydesdales

Clouding the view of copper roofs
With their expensive farts.
As the epiphany struck me
That all air is poison and elevators

Make everything OK. As I shredded
The prescription and its bag, I asked
The passing carriage, Am I supposed

To involve a machete,
and keep to the woods?

When We Were Young:

Toph Eggers on cuisine, other things

I tiptoe past his laboratory,
taking all pains not to
‘dismantle the symposium
of Greatness.’ A rope of light

is yanked through the loose
seal of his door as he hears
my tracks slide near. Is it
ready, yet? the door will

yell in no less than fifteen
variations over the next
racket of surgical moans.
It’s a good thing

I’ve marinated scallops
in lime juice and cilantro,
can then go about a quick
pan-sear to accommodate

our Hard Little Worker’s
needs. As I stir to flesh
his strawberry milk, cue
up Rescue 911, he screams

‘Be there in a minute’
and I know 1=10, so I cap
the plates with a hot pan,
shed the foil of a few Kisses,

shoot hoop on the Nerf,
and recite the first quatrains
of a sonnet he’s egged me
on to recite at the next Might

release. ‘Unveil the ottomans
of the sea, spritely pincushion
of my woes,’ he demands
of the streaked window. &,

‘I thought it was star fruit
demiglaze and kale bain
marie?’ I remind him,
‘Beggars can’t be…’

‘Thanks Mom, er… Toph.
fuck, did I really just say
that? Mortal Combat
at sunrise?’ He tells me,

flat left hand buoying
the grub. Reaching back
to swipe up the cutlery
in a scroll with his right

as he bounds
for the vault.

Voulez Vous Lait?

Voulez Vouz Lait?

I.

Look at the way they praise the oil,
hold the O of morning in mugs.

Race to jackhammer ribbon
to ink, air. Look—

how they sip
with dumb smiles

like parched camels,
sip, like bored dogs.

Each certain it keeps
the body attached

to the world. I’m going
to stick with this 2%.

II.

I was in second grade when Jesús
the janitor lured a few of us kids

to the coffee cart
out in the schoolyard, the big brown

dispenser an office building
full of boiled black water.

We plunked sugar cubes
in our Styrofoam mugs

already brimming
with rebellion,

and gargled the dark sun,
shook hands with sour rain.

III.

Like a sucker I claim I take up
the silt that lures me.

Each morning: turn me on.
I beg the drops.

And peck the screen to hear
a pulse. Choked

by the extra beats
of my heart

by midnight—
its silo

of breaking
wings

locked
in buzzing.