Warm Water
Warm Water
by Rob Rice
jazz drummers are in the business of letting us know
exactly how many right nows there are per second
creased at the eyes
face like a book
dog-eared anthology of dense smiles
how satisfying it would be to rip
a medium sized tree out of the ground
if you were a giant
i know you’d liberate
the little breath trapped there
is the city like a chandelier
arms folding like a thin fingered fist
in maybe by magnet
like
a hanging spider’s legs
that gather miserably around
the caught can for a hopeful second
be interpreted as loving
in a way it is
a surprise then
affirmations of sadness
like yeah
right
this is experience
personality
study it
shop thought talk of the dead
isn’t qualified
but definitely
they can sleep anywhere
if they’re depressed enough
electrical energy amassed
enough in the shoulders
to critically ablate a brain tumor Veins lit through skin
filaments that take a second to blink away go
migraine grey
as an afterthought
impression
our whole culture is driven
by that shit
it used to be
a small town
thing
the statistics
will
anyway
negotiate this
people enjoying the company of their dogs
say off hand
we need to add minutes between the hours
that’s their plan
to get away with it