waayo
a microphone for vocal tone
a microphone an ice cream cone
a motorhome to call my own
my mispelled mystery to keep
hist'ry – broken home cologne
let's fuck it up in just one day
a list of my friends names and numbers
you can't just leave it lying around ! ? the way you keep is unlike any other object, little black book, black bible. the fibres become accustomed to supporting those corners: the stack of love in ink and paper. they learn to love and forsake the starch, the novelty of newness, in giving way to sharp reams… they know them all by number
waayo
I've seen awards you get for just being there
sometimes not
award to call my own
my kakhi-stack, my beige-ness of heart
my reason to hope, unnecessary spark
a column-list of names, one more in numbers
a set of keys
what do you do with them? obviously – what do they unlock? each and every one. the PO box key you never returned, a lock for the blue bike you rode to school. they will sit neatly in a keyhole, and hang voluntarily. you can unlock the back door without hitting the outside of the lock – just right in the hole every time. practise makes perfect.
waayo
tell them apart by each steel clink
nope, those are hers
ching ching, there…
my passport to the world
the thing i love most
the keys the keys
a microphone
