I am a fan of your soul.
I would pay to see your soul table shower.

I apprentice your brown socks.
I am the best Journeyman your socks have seen.

The best electrician your tongue has ever kissed,
not to be modest, but.

I’m contemplating I am as conjuction,
juxtaposing—I can only speak for everyone:

You are not too cool to catch an ass whoopin’.
You are not too cool to get giddy over candy.

Talking about god requires a robust
list of places that deliver

1. Tejano BBQ
2. o’ my burger

All encompassing list of vanishing places:

Coolworld. The Moon. Inside the heart. Planisphere. Everywhere. Everywher. Everywhe. Everyewh. Everyw. Every. Ever. Eve Ev. E. Or Maybe distantly in front of you. Peeling. I am so . My hands. The eyes. Planets. Our history. And counting. Down. And COUNTING. Japan. America. Canada. Pangea. Kurt Vunnegut Project Mayhem. Deep into the lake of Necessity. Is right in most cases. Wrong in the leapsong. Get that magnifying glass out of here.  Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. The list grows. It is molding. Molding. Molding. Reaching. For you. Everywhere. Everywher. Everywhe. Everywh. Everyw. Every. Ever. Eve. Ev.

There is a balcony.
A trio of birds collected

on the flood light.
I am a fan of your soul—

I run the unofficial website
of opportunities

to shake what your momma gave ya.
Even if she didn’t leave you that much.

.

.

.


This is Korean subtitles in a Rhodesian movie theater.

.

.


You hear a song.

.

.


“The doorknob turns every twenty years,”
I’m just noticing.

.

.


He is not Nigerian, she is.
They are in love but aren’t.

.

.

The Turing feel—

.

.

Urban Dictionary calls this a booty call

.

.

“I am a Nigerian Prince.
For ten days I will unrest
my crown of thorns.”
—he dances for her
@ liveafricansexcam.com

.

.

You hear a song,

.

.

.

.

.

“This is a bathhouse centipede winding the tile in the pre dawn.”

.

.

.

..

.

.

.

.

.

Nothingness was born, and a consciousness to observe this nothingness.

A consciousness to observe that consciousness.

This continues. 

None of these are Yojimbo.

A sudden reduction.

A colorful sky.

The sky isn’t Yojimbo.

Yojimbo is wiggling his toes in the grass.

Yojimbo isn’t the wind.

(…….noises carried elsewhere
off the wind howl……

Yojimbo corrects himself.

There is correcting yourself

And then there is Yojimbo

.

.


Mike Crossley lives in Los Angeles at the moment. He loves Smart Water. Some fiction, photography, or poems have appeared in Prelude Magazine, Hobart, Columbia Poetry Review, Apogee, Drunken Boat, and the Atlas Review. www.mikecrossley.com

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