Three Poems to a Fake Dead ModelWritten at Brooklyn Poets Society’s Yawp

Waking up in a lemon sunrise and feeling
live-caught out of the cradle, endlessly 
top-rocking the dead letter blues, model
corpses present their best faces at all times;
what’s the matter, no return address but
a bunch of balloons to drag you home.
A dress of careless ruffles, half peacocked
to the runway, no way those legs have been
flat-domesticated when they jettison out
the skirt. For what it’s worth, the dress
and the envelope and the mourners’ tears
match the sky, all death launching forth
filament after filament after lament
that might catch on some spiring nebulae;
who could have known stars would end up in stars?

***

After a night dancing with a spleen,
queen drowning like a dirty letter
saved from high school — I know
you’re thirty but your cheekbones 
say you’re thirteen. My days are 
dandelion blue, your dress is a cornfield
of balloons, drink until the polka dot
ruffles encasing your twigs kaleidoscopes
the borough — I could send you off
in a paper airplane, I could throw you off
the runway, I could change your diet
pills with whey. Hey! You’re part of it,
the glitzy trip in the sidewalk cracks.

***

Dead letter blues
Dead balloons herds
Dead model killing the shoot
Dead like being ankle strapped to fog

Blue like September
Blue like buzz
Blue like been there before
Blue like a lost strut

Three Poems to a Fake Dead Model
Written at Brooklyn Poets Society’s Yawp

Waking up in a lemon sunrise and feeling
live-caught out of the cradle, endlessly
top-rocking the dead letter blues, model
corpses present their best faces at all times;
what’s the matter, no return address but
a bunch of balloons to drag you home.
A dress of careless ruffles, half peacocked
to the runway, no way those legs have been
flat-domesticated when they jettison out
the skirt. For what it’s worth, the dress
and the envelope and the mourners’ tears
match the sky, all death launching forth
filament after filament after lament
that might catch on some spiring nebulae;
who could have known stars would end up in stars?

***

After a night dancing with a spleen,
queen drowning like a dirty letter
saved from high school — I know
you’re thirty but your cheekbones
say you’re thirteen. My days are
dandelion blue, your dress is a cornfield
of balloons, drink until the polka dot
ruffles encasing your twigs kaleidoscopes
the borough — I could send you off
in a paper airplane, I could throw you off
the runway, I could change your diet
pills with whey. Hey! You’re part of it,
the glitzy trip in the sidewalk cracks.

***

Dead letter blues
Dead balloons herds
Dead model killing the shoot
Dead like being ankle strapped to fog

Blue like September
Blue like buzz
Blue like been there before
Blue like a lost strut

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