BULLSHIT LIT

They saw themselves getting ready for bed and slept under the same roof. They had chances to meet each other. They loved poetry and shared poetry and ate poetry and threw up poetry and hugged poetry and laughed poetry and talked in poetry and looked in poetry and slept in poetry and cried in poetry and promised in poetry. They fed poetry and washed poetry and walked poetry and put it in their hair and put it in on their tongue and changed their clothes with it. They jumped into the middle of a cold springwater pond and dried out in poetry. They giggled in poetry while the sun spilled paints over clouds and rolled over the edge. They whispered a line at a time to each other and kept poems that never end inside magic boxes. They mocked the vain professors of poetry and swooned at the intimate, quiet professors who treated poetry like tissue paper they kept folded up in some secret compartment on their person at all times. They wept on stoops and in tents and by campfires. They asked if they could touch each other until they touched the little moon that pokes like a toy light out of a person’s heart. They each had a moon that came out across the sky whether through the day’s blue milk or the night’s eyesocket in desert mountains. They could’ve lived like this forever, nomadic epicureans gazing at our wasteland’s most beautiful deserts: rubber rabbitbrush, apache pocket mouse, cyanobacteria, little blue stem, gypsum. They made love on the highway going 80mph between 18 wheelers, through valleys and cities that might’ve seen them. Their homes would often sneak up on them and remind them of other lives that require them. They kept listening and heard that buzzing wave that sometimes passes like a moon through moments, telling them what they really want. They held each other in a tent on a cliff as a storm tugged the poles and blew off flaps like kites that wanted to take them into the canyon. They burned seaweed and dry bones between tree skin. They each took turns building fire into cones or crosshatches, laying their take from a hurricane's shored trash or a camping host’s trailer raid onto the twinkling coals like roses. They watched fires burn broken black mirrors into logs. They slept in an empty tent staked to sand that sleeps even with a million bodies massaging it and woke up with bites all over their butts. They spoke a language like a windchime in a world of bells, like a marble spinning inside a circular freeway, like the inside of a tire. They found holes in their bodies to let themselves out or took off their bodies completely. Their blood pumped with the creativity of lack. They wanted to communicate like water pouring just onto the edge of a sphere so that it mists and humidifies. They listened like a cave smoothed out by slow water pouring over rock. They wanted what the soul is like, a spinning spinning, gravity-less marble, ice on ice, falling through an endless sieve and being infinitely defined.