Sam Donsky Inception

We're at the Hotel Scraped Knees,
we are asleep in God's plan, we're
with each other in the ribcage
of the image of night. Our
six-beer anniversary—Philly
in the spring; Happy Halloween
it is the Fourth of July. Let's
celebrate,
you say, strapped
for youth, shook to dust,
arriving younger in a stupor
at the Sprained Ankle Suite.
Music box; movie theater; laptop
glow—already I am too far
ahead of the story. We snorted
first lines off the Floors of
Strangers. We stumped for plot twists while you wore
your invisible dress. We met
again (& again) at the Corrosive
Attraction: each silence the
most fashioned, each sentence
the most run-on & wearing
me out. We were stiff with
time's pathos / we were twisted
as necks: or: a lot has almost
certainly happened since then.
We made a living off the world's
smallest metaphor. A mint off
the blockbuster bra of the
summer. A fortune from my
health until it went belly-up.
It was a year tucked into days
tucked into one single night:
r u awake they asked but we
(umm) definitely weren't,
r u okay you wondered but
wonder was decades behind.
Anecdotes arrived & then came
into focus — a loss in Breakup
Sex Hero
to pause at "I'm /
older"; a keg-stand on the
shoulders of giants qua graves.
Many poems will get written
about this, you remind me, &
this, & this, but the time has
since passed to be amused
by what's been. & do they
have the scene where I
schlepped off your sweater?
Or where I drank cocktails
that tasted like black eyes
all hour, or where my
politics lined up with Libidos
for Peace? But in the end I get
sick, 7 in the end we eat our
prayers with a side of been
born
: thank you animation;
thank you spinning in circles;
thank you underworld of
encounters with your hand
on my cheek. It's been four
days, it's been three years.
I've clung to this arm &
disarm. I've swung the
trapdoor & the door.
Let's celebrate, you say,
& without cause we make
do: shrinking each metaphor
still; taking the bra franchise
art-house to brunette-ish
acclaim. The critics OMG us,
get me thinking This Is It: we
win Best Habit at the Comas,
& at the Cat-Naps Best Let's
Talk; Best Just the Nature
of Things; Best New Limited
Number of Nights. It was
dumb to wake up like we did
but the morning; we had
swollen tonsils of it. Sore
throats. Go to bed, I consider,
neither doctor nor kisser:
I'm at the Ankle Turn
Fountain; I'm in the Back
Thrown Out Sea. Finally:
the good idea. Finally: the
Get Well descends into its
Soon. Last call at the Split
Lip; onward & upward to the
Downhill From Here. There is
dancing at Stubbed Toe's but
we miss it. They have a jukebox
at the Ache but they are out of
good songs. Music box; movie
theater; laptop glow: I've been
sleeping so well that they grant
me a sequel. I am dreaming,
nightmare-hearted, down
the cobblestone sheets.





















































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