Thursday, July 26, 2012


Pants looped after too many belts
don’t promise success or bail free
waters under dirty skies every
mixture says don’t when the balance
beam broke into a foxtrot just inside
the screen door where love splashes
on the rocks with the sand in the glass
falling faster than angels and stockbrokers
with sad suspenders oblivious to the spring
in the step of the dreamsick broad ins
stained sweatpants cleaning out some boxes
for the rats to pray in the safety of their own
hunger wrapped in cloverleafs and buzzed
by choppers on the label of the hash can,
is all I saw all day.

Shut up will ya’.

The vicar’s got a full count and a nasty
crease in his trousers.
His hitting streak is on the line and the laundry mat
could regurgitate on the way to actual soul music
in the busboy’s shuffle.
 April 5th, 2012