All of These Parties Outside the Microwave

My friend, I went to your stupid mine,
carried in obligation's very hot mitten.

Everything was ticked as Gift, Scar, or Luck.
The new parasail made you look post-history,

as we do feel, or feel-ish, long enough to
fuck up. I did that eyebrows thing like good job.

Then we stood on the roof, years of stilt training
between us. We chewed Sudafeds and ham, chuckled at

by all: all that passes for beloved these days.
Why is cake in the shape of a rocket not

you? Someone wants to draw your face and I say
ransom. When my friend makes a good joke,

my other friends are in the shower distantly,
as the minutes of the sun left wait to be

picked for the dodgeball of sentiment.
Half the time I feel like U.S.S. Bitchface,

and all the people line up to pet me. Other-
wise, I cut burritos with a pizza slicer and you

laugh and I think "if that is your real laugh,
go to sleep. I want to steal it. Don't go."