Sam
you are a new
kind of eulogy
you never say anything
I’m sorry about the world I say
I’m sorry we have a language
that’s really an atmosphere
I will build our future house
inside your belly
there will be one room
devoted entirely to dancing
our ghosts will have sex
with each other
this will have already taken place
one hundred years ago
I’m sorry I have started to forget
your face
Sam
you are a new
kind of weapon
one-half rifle & one-half grizzly bear
you are one-half capable
of killing yourself
death is a microfiche of life
& terribly boring
why don’t you live with me
in a tent inside my parents’ house
it’s the sleepiest boy/girl place I know
we will have walkie-talkies
we will have of new names
to call each other by
in a more perfect world
we would not be this lonely
Sam
you are a new
kind of motel
you make love
like a vibrating bed
I’m not saying that’s a bad thing
just familiar
familiar can be nice sometimes
think Budweiser
or french fries
our first night together
in your parents’ house
my face is my face
no matter where we are
every winter your legs
drive me sad & sweetly
they are beautiful
new snow tires
Sam
you are a new
kind of habeas corpus
I don’t even know
what you mean anymore
I used to know I want you
you were a kangaroo
I thought we both
felt prairie fire
my dark eyes met
your dark eyes
we were a hearse
now I don’t know
I haven’t slept in three days
I am alone
I want to sleep
with someone
we used to be utterly goddamn
now I want someone
to grind me into canola oil
Sam
you are a new
kind of monster
you sure do look awful
good when you’re naked
I dare you to hide
underneath my bed
I dare you to follow me
home from the bus stop
late at night
until we get to my front door
& you reach your monster hand
into my chest
rip out my heart
& replace it with a hummingbird
I think that’s the most romantic thing
a monster could do
Sam
you are a new
kind of power pop
I love how sweet
& shimmering your stomp box is
the starriest wah-wah
in a science fair diorama
I am the teenage fanclub
you’ve been looking for
I would go all
the way with you
rip my headphones off
we could take ecstasy
anything to make you
go supernova
at least twice
while I play with your tremolo
Sam
you are a new
kind of periscope
when I suck your toes
I can see Alaska
when we come
together we are
a nuclear submarine
I can stay down
practically forever
until you tell me to surface
I make tiny waves
in the perpetual wake
of your waterbed
I have declared
your face to be my
favorite desert island 
Nate Slawson is the author of Panic Attack, USA (YesYes Books, forthcoming Fall 2011) and two chapbooks, A Mixtape Called Zooey Deschanel (Line4) and The Tiny Jukebox (H_NGM_N Books). He designs and publishes books for cinematheque press.
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