…at this time cannot quite curse the world. —Hart Crane

Friends, those few worthies,

know to keep close the strawberry macarons

known to loosen the lips once known

only to part with the driest champagne—

oh how I loathe the image

I’m crafting here of my tired—

always tired—self——

if, like always, they’re ready to know

the tea alongside the tea.

Made properly—incorrectly—they melt

like fondant on the tongue itching

to bemoan our dear puppet

presidency, the great plastic reef,

artificially generated ‘poems’

read to an audience deadened

to any semblance of nuance, drag

queens having never seen Golden Girls—

I could go on, and we do:

nothing better than a laugh

at the girl who literally sang about being a prettier Jesus.

It’s summertime. There’s no fighting depressed.