Morgan Parker


The Great Pacific Garbage Patch


At the time I was trying
to have out of body
experiences and husbands
My mouth was dry
for attention I flipped
up my skirt for a little sun

On the coldest days
when sunsets turned to milk
I slept a little longer

Hold my hand under the table


The flushing warm comes later
For now we are taking
someone’s grandma's pills
I am slicing a wedge of Brie
with a comically large blade
We walk a windy canyon and are safe
Someone asks where that blood on the floor came from


This kitchen table is the only place
Maybe we have been here for days
While the animals shake
we write our names in marker
on the old wood

When I am not
reminding myself I am remembering
which is worse
because our fingers smell like flowers
because kitchen tables are made for eating
fucking, snorting

Like the small feeling never left I wake up


We think our fingers
smell like flowers but it is only opium

Let us go slowly on this path of being
Let us wake up in different beds

Everyone is talking

trash stew

There's a lot of praying going on
in these hills here


We float the way hair fills plastic bags
the way these states are heading underwater
into hills as expensive as our mouths

We don't touch watch from the window
Then sunshine for an hour

Something in the sky
moving sideways and too fast

You are the jesus of this room