Poem While Watching the U.S. Open Tennis Tournament

on Thursday August 28th, 2025

I want Coco Gauf to sign my balls but her nails are cutlass and saber.

I like her leather jacket, too

and the fact that she named her Labubu

Arthur Flashe leads me to believe

that if the whole tennis thing doesn’t work out

the second act in her American life

might be as Poet Laureate of Boynton, Beach Florida.

Already there’s no watermelon at the deli.

Tomorrow’s Friday maybe we’ll get a round of brie.

I need to pick up my coat with the hummingbird lining

renew my library card, study the pictures

the doctor took of my colon —Appendiceal Orifice

Ileocecal Valve, Splenic Flexure;

Jupiter’s Great Red Spot may have existed before 1665.  

Do beams, rooster wing, from the tip of the Bronx Zoo

to the Hudson Line

the BX12 is sloppy love. Last time

I was in New York we went to the MoMA.

You tried to fuck the Serra box cubes.

I have no clarity of emotion. Things are blowing up.

Right scale, right scope, I memorize the universe on dope.

I guess it’s never too late to dodge August for September.

We lack compelling storylines.

Escape from Alcaraz is a lowercase observation.  

A good night in

is watching that movie

where all the virgins die —this from Austin

who says I should write more symbolically.   

Seething like elm disease, clouds like railroads…

Dachau-black. Too many likes green my bruise.

What the fuck. This is the most serious stanza yet.

We are lying and filthy and volleying for love.

Net cord, colon red, I memorize the universe on dope

and feel the hummingbird fly out of my coat.

Tommy Paul —no, no, I never trust a guy with two first names.