I ate all this Adderall,
reading an OK story about a dead bird
Beethoven’s last piano sonata on
because I have trashy taste in Classical music
the futura palm trees swaying.
The pianist Rudi Serkin minds his fingers
as Stan comes out of the house dazed and naked
Staaaanley from Newark who likes it there inexplicably
who looks like he should bump into things
more often than he does.
You look at that sky he says wrapped yellow in gauze
I grunt I’m reading a Very Good story about a dead bird
it Just Reaches Out of the Page
plus Rudi has plenty to show me with his friend van Bee.
Stanley turns over his soft goldenrod ass lifted to the wind
rippling his taint hair fine and blonde but there is so much of it
but wait it isn’t the wind it’s him it’s Stanley
thrusting himself into the green seat cushion
to my trashy Beethoven
a sudden rush of keys Rudi drops in time
he pushes in a wide slow circle
ragged at some junctions at others delicate
and I think OK OK Stan
I can set aside
my little dead bird book.
If only you could have seen his ass as I did
hungry for cold cuts the ocean behind
split tetrahedrons that caught the light
threw it back
sky took pinks, reds
he missed a beat, try again
the song played 19 minutes.
And when he was done
a concert hall in Berlin applauded
Stan rose at a 45 degree from his inseam
flopping back into the house