waayo

a microphone for vocal tone
a microphone an ice cream cone

a motorhome to call my own
my mispelled mystery to keep

hist'ry – broken home cologne
let's fuck it up in just one day

a list of my friends names and numbers

you can't just leave it lying around ! ? the way you keep is unlike any other object, little black book, black bible. the fibres become accustomed to supporting those corners: the stack of love in ink and paper. they learn to love and forsake the starch, the novelty of newness, in giving way to sharp reams... they know them all by number

waayo

I've seen awards you get for just being there
sometimes not

award to call my own
my kakhi-stack, my beige-ness of heart

my reason to hope, unnecessary spark
a column-list of names, one more in numbers

a set of keys

what do you do with them? obviously – what do they unlock? each and every one. the PO box key you never returned, a lock for the blue bike you rode to school. they will sit neatly in a keyhole, and hang voluntarily. you can unlock the back door without hitting the outside of the lock – just right in the hole every time. practise makes perfect.

waayo

tell them apart by each steel clink
nope, those are hers

ching ching, there...
my passport to the world

the thing i love most
the keys the keys

a microphone