Rodeo II

her complex chemical reactions

lead to expectations

that I practice the way

to unload a grocery cart.

we went two times a night,

claws, beard, entangled

searching for purchase.

Ranking first, number one

flush-knocked-cartoid-throb,

 she bespilt unvoweled

octaves from the high sierra.

Open  your eyes,

Cowgirl,

I  feel objectified.

post-second had a

very why dialect.

laugh asking,

do you like me?

Fourteen Two Thousand Seventeen

You whisper.

my heart turns acrobatic

you leave

light bulbs pulsing in your wake.

The bowling alley

can’t seem more chaotic than

the bed we so beastly unmade.

We made the boy and the girl

who we prep

for trajectory.

hell if know

the routes you go

with,

to me,

uncanny instinct

I trust like

I once did Santa.

(it was the drug, not me)

You can populate

a Dee-troit city directory

with what i can’t explain.

i do

know

though

why

my head explodes:

you want me?

my

high crass woman.

Together as we lead them to nest’s edge

the world will open up with arms outstretched.

my dearest partner of greatness,*

your love is
tulips in the tiptoes of

me and Harry Dean.

*Macbeth, 1.5

As the Weed Eater Turns

Low octane paranoia standing in my intestines. Nothing that can’t be assuaged by a deep existential exhale. My breath reeks of corn chips, coffee and cigarettes. Possibly rivaling Corn Nuts, the decomposing dog someone heaved into a garbage bag, dropped into a 5 gallon bucket and relocated to the middle of the alley behind my house. Flies pop the sack like steady rain, stuffed insensate with good old Corn Nuts. I say dog because the weight feels right when I poke it with a stick.  I can't actually see what's inside the bag. It could be a human leg.  I opt for animal control over 911 because I am not a slave to fancy. Odds are it's a dog. I wouldn’t bet its real name was Corn Nuts either. I named it in honor of the snack that smells bad.  Like my breath. That possibly my breath smells as bad as that carcass out back?   That's not even close to the truth. An exaggeration that serves no other purpose than to draw attention to the weight and inconvenience of death. 

passive aggressive fan letter

where some unnamed personal inadequacy contributes to the ghost writer's thirst for vengeance

first
had to talk her out of the race
took her to a meeting
this and dialysis?
ran unmolested
delivered suggestions 
as ice belies the booze.
what forces drive
the changing tide
we’ll leave to the known
unknowns.
what may come 
came,
the aye’s held sway
on my motion 
to ban your 
book

Jimmy's insides turn to custard

grackles blast then recombobulate
with a fresh full moon backdrop.
it was the moonwalk
on tv and Waves
of Jimmy’s remedial charm/plump fingers of Southern Comfort.
Jimmy cracking corny jokes and traces of her
ancient Greek grandfather's high pitch whine

still stuck in her throat.

Francine claps
what the hell.
slips
her hand down the ample 
elastic band 
of her polyester drawers,

 smiles.
Before she whips it out,
the grackles reconvene
for yet another
daring
power line cantata