she’s just not that out to space

if energy equals
mass
times the speed
of this little light
of mine,

it makes a lot of sense
that I am sick
slow
that it is dark and relentless
and that I am gaining weight
and wish for chocolate …

that I cannot find a compass pointing
to a direction
or a boat that doesn’t sink
or boiling water that isn’t lukewarm;

passion poetry is tepid milk,
lingerie sags granny panty not-hot,
and every sentence I lose ground– further indicted, but No offense …

… and forty-one gives up without a fight, two months before it had planned on it–two months shy of birthday lift-off.

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she’s just not that out to space

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