Suture

The Scots of the Outer Hebrides
have more than 40 words
for seaweed.
I can’t identify

one strand washed ashore.
One water garden tool
left to rust in the detached
gray cedar shingle

garage. There where our starfish
died from gasoline fumes—
or loneliness. Ours
would not have had the gumption

to regenerate from a surviving arm.
When a woman you’ve known too long
nearly stabs you in the stomach
with a paring knife

(accident or no accident),
it’s time to get
the hell out of the kitchen.
Passive aggressive weather

smothers the streets.
Architectural leisure suits
in desperate need of reskinning
disco along widening suburban roads.

Those platform heels have no sidewalk
to strut across.
A neon sign flashes:
How to Become Famous in One Easy Step

If you want to be essential,
try dying. Try contradicting yourself.
Try Tool over Beethoven.
Try Bowie over Nirvana.

Dylan over the Rolling Stones.
Try Mr. Leonard Cohen
should be even higher.
Where’s AA Bondy?

Why oh why should Led Zeppelin
and REM rank higher
than the Mats? This is Minnesota
Public Radio’s countdown.

It comes down to Prince
and the Beatles.
Two Beatles are dead.
All of Prince is. In the end,

they’re more popular
than Jesus. In the end,
it has nothing to do with
Jesus or kelp.

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