try poetry
try ambien
try melodies
leaves begin
telling me
incoherently,
other than the language
of oranges and peach--
more of a mellow,
relaxing, asphyxiated salmon I'd have to agree upon,
do we ever speak on;
we mix our colors like spit
and our tongues' tips hit
and mix, and
we paint all the mysteries
of autumn,
in a language
that even smells nostalgic

and sweaters shed the scent
of closets, closed in corners
hung by hangers,
and sweetly
start to smell like smoke
and the stale cold staring down
your sleeves until they cover your arms
and staring down your zipper
until it covers your chest
and staring down the sun
till subsidized means ready to rest,
and margin and income
means the rest of the bed
is shared gain and fair game
so here I come

and there we share the mysteries
and secrets of autumn,
dizzy autumn
orange and peach
pumpkin and plum
and sour
and sweet, smooth
and clean,
wet in the street
in the gutter
but clean next to me
not near the gutter drowning to death
drinking to keep to their necks
by the flat of their backs
hardly not drunk swallowed half passed drinking to death
and man can serene seem like
decisions or eternity
or gambling or rambling
but i've been doing both
for so long,
my heads still full
but torn black jeans
have half full pockets
of winnings i never blew
they stay full
but not like they used to.