number one: an excuse
i wanted to know what it would feel like to walk through the swamp
behind the lodge wearing my lo-tops and ryan's socks.
then i thought about my car--new--tan interior--no rubber floor mats.
number two: a true story
a russian man, tall blonde,
he liked to be called bruno
says: "girl you drink"
when he's sober he calls me "katy"
when i say no he says: "why not?"
and "are you drunk?"
but when he's sober he doesn't sing.
number three: confession
i can't get "leave the peaches out" into a poem.
i can't tell if it's really him.
number four: lost and found
one, two all the way up to ten—
naked toes on a cold cloud of sand
left by wind & travelers on the asphalt.
number five: podge
he poked my side, said to listen.
i watched him instead, lip-sinking the words
to an automatic* song.
number six: define it yourself
this is a mixed bag of goodies;
just like your religion.
*automatic are/were(?) a band who's bassist, rob, is good mates with ryan.