That I have been what the sages deemed a dipshit

is not at this point up for debate. For I have dipshat

via many exploits, many modalities, many choices,

too many to unpack here in the splendid courtroom.

I’ve come to bring Her Excellency’s awareness unto

the futility of her exercise. For though I am honored

by Her generous attention, I regret I must refer Her

to the annals of my dipshiterry so as to give Her fair

warning should She continue to pursue Her course.

What She has heard about my make-out strategies,

while true & flattering, paint an incomplete picture.

The gardening, as well, was temporary, but enough

in its intimations of humility & devotion to become

folded into the other identities that combined create,

especially considering their fraudulence, the dipshit

kneeling here before Her, begging Her to reconsider

what the dipshit considers a romantic but ultimately

misguided philanthropism. For the dipshit deserves

no such thing. For the dipshit is best left to his own

devices: the lonely dipping, shitting, as the sages, in

their mysterious design, intended. Her time is far too

valuable—& mine, though I hoard it like the dipshit

that I am, is not (as I am its) mine.

In lieu of a text message here is a mourning dove

I looked at for a long time while repeating

your name in my head. My hope is that the dove

will find its way to you & you will hear

my voice in some capacity, even just

a memory of it asking when was the last time you ate.

Oh my god I miss you. Oh my god.

Boundaries, my own, can put their mouth on my asshole

& inhale with vigor. What are you looking at right now?

Is someone dancing? Is there a honeydew?

What if I’m too old to wait for you?

What if when you’re done I’m already gone?

Every day I put off forgetting your voice & think

about your voice filling the room like a fucking solar flare

pulling me into your impossible golden distance.

Let me sleep a little longer in your guitar.

I would like to make a room in there with lamps

& a stove & a garden under the skylight.

Has the dove arrived? Listen to me.

Every day I fall higher into a life that is not ours.

Now I have to go inside.

Now, when it is not yet morning.

In a dream the snake walks by

with doll heads tied to its body. I must

return. I am not finished.

Something still requires me,

loneliness, my comfort

armor, my established faith.

I was an ogre in the river

yearning, each hand

knew a violence unknown

to the other, each heartbeat

another shovelful of dirt

dumped upon a secret harm.

I hid from my body inside

my body, hid from God

inside the passive voice.

I ruined my life by living it

without me.

Now the light is

hungry, & I must go in.