>Do You Have Cancer? [sketch]

>A particularly terrible evening to find oneself a slave
To soaked wool socks, a full pink cap topped with a firm button
Nothing like a cherry. She doesn’t care much for this parking lot
She doesn’t care about description in the negative, women drivers
Nor does she mind the extra attention, the broken yellow boxes
This is what life’s become, even the dark, cross-eyed passerby
His lurking, bowed shoulders and smoky-green sweatshirt
Eyes rolling downhill; even he proves to be just another now.
Sidling questions bugger each vision, all beyond reproach
Like the causeless rain overwhelms every hungry pore before
Flooding the less-traveled corners of the strip mall’s exterior.

>Proletarians in Space [sketch]

>The critical stare of green flipflops on blue carpet
I am outnumbered & unable to work or the work comes slowly
Common folk pad the round theater, award no books
But gaze up at passing sky framed by the curtain wall
Then, perhaps, bury their beloved corpses under the bailey
This blue grass more darkly & desperate to be fed.