THREE POEMS by JOHN LING
CHRISTIE’S INSURED MY DICK FOR NEGATIVE ONE MILLION DOLLARS
O Love they ran out
of party mix at Costco
I could not believe it
I picked up
smoking and called
every girl Grace
as if God had forgotten
about influenza
and Brahms
and the way it feels
to pack a suitcase when you’re going
someplace as superfluous
as California
where I once felt a sadness
so big that tomatoes sprang
from the earth where
my tears fell
but none of this matters
now that I am a person
with concerns
like giving Dutch kisses in the wind
and finding out why motels smell like that
Love
remember when a night
at the Peacock Inn cost
thirty bucks and a bottle of Lysol
I think it was the year somebody won
the World Series
and I threw up
on your good shoe
and you told me
I was God’s first
and only mistake
ALAS THAT I WAS BORN!
Heaven might mean nothing more
than the simple absence
of California
but I suppose you spend your time
dealing with beautiful problems
like the declensions
of the Latin words
for stuffed animal
and weighted blanket
so let me be brief in saying
it is Tuesday morning
and I have been in love
and I have been in Las Vegas
and neither one
will leave you alone
for five minutes
before shoving
a cocktail in your face
and telling you
life is okay
because we all make a little money in the end
and those who get their dicks sucked
get their dicks sucked on behalf
of those who don’t
so it is a good idea
to have a calendar
on your wall
and fill it
with the things
you will do
on the days
you will do them
TO MONTANA ON EIGHTH STREET IN THE RAIN
Sure, tie my shoes together—I’ll sit down
to piss and lap prosecco off the floor
like Judy Garland if she were the crown
imperatrix of troughs. Let’s drink Dior
and Gucci and Chaumet—I want to smell
as good inside as out. As for those keen-
on-Frankfurt-School garçons: I’m buying bells
to hang around their necks. And if I keep
a half a dozen Hestia butts to list
on eBay ‘cause they’re stained the sacred red
of Meg’s wine spangled mouth—who cares? I’d kiss
raccoons for her. But love, for you, I’ve read
timetables—any bus you want to get
run over by: it’s coming. Hope you’re wet.
John Ling (he/him) lives and works in New York City.