Westwind

Honestly

Jacob Eisenmann

I’m pretty bad

At being on purpose.

I’m wondering

What these things mean  —

A steel chain airbrushed

A smooth gradient from purple to orange.

I’m thinking of Bishop’s Santarém,

Of course, I may be remembering it all wrong.

 

A case of Fiji water is $47.50

Online, I know because I looked

It up. I am afraid of being forgotten.

I’m begging you to remember this:

Wouldn’t it be great to have a

Refrigerator filled with plastic bottles of Fiji

Water, the entire thing

Sitting on chrome rims?

 

Here I am wanting to write bad poetry

Because it feels correct to write badly —

When I was looking at rims

I found out

The ones I have my heart set on

Are $1200 each,  as if

One would just buy one.

 

I’m disobeying again, I can’t not.

Hopefully, I’ll die an orphan, I know

I wanted to be born one — and played

One for years with all my

Friends and un-confidants

behind the downstairs couch.

 

I never tire of desire, I’m thirsty

With it, and I like when it’s handed

To me. But, in my hand it seems wanting.

Most of my things are real pieces of

Junk. I love them. It’s only

They can’t dance and I can—

There’s the difference. My broken

Toy motorcycle goes in circles without joy.

I go in circles without much joy.

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