synanpses 4
By AJ Urquidi

When the two of us occupy
the same boat loose staples
become sweet treats. You can touch

a canine’s putrid brain but you
can never reach its heart.
At a kitchen table I sweat

self-worth and wipe my forehead
with a whoopee cushion. I cannot
occupy the brain of a codpiece-clad

man, cannot occupy a drain of four
dimensions. This is why it takes
so long to laugh at cannibal logic,

to understand and shun the beliefs
of big-hearted fools. Soup can pyramids
dock points for waking hours. Your mother

took a hit, took another hit. My mind
puts hits in cubicles. There are five
bruise categories, each with two

sub-categories of alternate colors. Listen
up idiot—I can’t write abstractions,
that’s against poet rule. My job

is to observe and imply connections.
You concede to imply that I’m wrong.
What I know about love is that there

are three categories, each with five
sub-categories and you have seen
all of them. For me, maybe one

for sure. The girl at the bar asked
if we were brothers. Triangle…triangle
…pentagon…triangle…square…you

never asked what I gave up…triangle
…rectangle…my face said you
already knew…square. If the floor

were to give out and dangle me
a-gripping beam, I know you’d think
me better to relax my hands.

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