Peter Cole Friedman

McCarren Park #17

The trees are all like tada!   but that’s their only trick

unless the wind comes with its slurry of dance moves       I walk

straight home       a dutiful verb     reverberating

pushing no-name islands further into the ether     With my remote

tongue     i can’t help but kiss     everything

out of touch     With reality & especially lipstick

you have to wipe the corners   to make the look work

When pieces of the apocalypse would slip out of our pockets

your perfume was pure ridicule   ylang ylang     getting away

from you with murder     sailing choppily   into the gurgling flesh

of my stomach     All awash & thrown up   so it was a wash

after all   The clouds will go back underground

forming bands     & i’ll only hear about them   years later

as the memories of cool friends   who made

a cameo appearance   on the grid   to say what’s up

With the trees   i’m guessing there’s a kind of explosive homage

being paid     (“Atten-tion!”)   A toast     to new constellations

Thanks for the Memoirs

I’m going     to stay inside

Tonight         is a way of saying thank you

to our survival of today       Let’s make a toast   toaster

to all of the ingredients we don’t need

to laughter riding the tricycle   to the sexed-up flowers

Trying so hard to impress you     i’ve lost all sense of myself-

less nature         A cold robot hand massaging

My temples   these giant empty rooms people take off their shoes     in

The wandering in is an art   that’s hard to critique

without a paintbrush           Yellow gold green

the colors are in size order       but the rainbow can’t see

(Me whispering to a distant place     i found in a book)

A few answers       to no question in particular

Yellow gold green     the sun changes its mind sometimes

just because it’s on fire         Doesn’t mean I’m gonna save it

These circus eyes are distracted     photons carrying too much

cotton candy       For the costume party   i’m going to be me