Lizzy Burnam 🐞

The art of love meets the art of war 
and a black hole forms 
from one bellybutton to the other,
all of space and time
moving back and forth between them 
like a gentle ocean tide. 
Witch wife drunk on pornsick martini,
DJ Nasty Ras hawking
loogies off the front porch
at 6am, 6am, man
somebody owes somebody an apology. 
One for the bridges, 
two for the peaks, 
honorable mentions (of course) for the starlight city
Vegas, still pulsing 
like its own species of blood clot. 
Note to self: Quit 
letting that bad hand speak 
for me: 
wolf—wimp—who I am vs. 
the roles I play.
Desert-lonely marigold
and white chokecherry blooms,
who spoke agoraphobic toad
from comfort of her doom. 
Look—a smoke signal!
Look—the naked truth!
I played the tape back and forward and back again,
I brought my manager and 
my firefighter, each 
of my seven exiles,
and I looked for him there, 
sub rosa, 
the snake hole dilating like a pupil
and I found it:
By god's grace, an orange. 
Ars longa, vita brevis.