I make pancakes on a greasy griddle
by moonlight. I kiss teeth. Wear pink
- only ironically. You ask me to write
you a poem; and who am I to oblige?
Eat peanut butter off the spoon - chunky above all,
including God herself, processed to Hell
and back. This is not for you. Life’s simple
pleasures are these: a kiss on the eyelids /
hot summer rains / cryptid sightings in your hometown.
I do not create for you or me or us.
I paint. I write. I wink into the sun and I send it my love.