how the locksmith helped, draft 102120120753

you locked the door behind, you what else
could i do? you were young, i wanted more.

in his suicide note K dreamed about
Freddie — admired, envied — never locked

their door. silent, wind and highway light crawling
sharp, i remember you mad against

the white brick wall posed as imperfection.
i had the locksmith come as a favor

he couldn’t have known, what else could he do?
i thanked him with cash, the actor performed.

how the locksmith helped, draft 102120121741

you locked the door behind you what else
could i do? you were young, i wanted more.

in his suicide note K dreamed about
Freddie — admired, envied — never locked

silence then, wind and highway lights crawling
now i remember you posing against

painted brick wall posed as imperfection
i had the locksmith come as a favor

he couldn’t have known, what else could he do?
i thanked him with cash, i can think of worse.

One Long Fucking Question for Michael Robbins

What I’ve learned about long walks of course
Was taught by the whiskers of a reservation man
Lashing a horse
Sterile tracts of pale kentucky blue grey shale

Don’t take them
Or take them seldom by mail
Stretching out like a dying dog
between
The pickets and Queen Anne

For a loss
They can’t
Be beat

The beat
Across the lawn
The lawn along the limb
Where does nightfall end
And daybreak crown its gin?

Engaging with The Homeless

let’s trade
this water
clear, common, clean and cool
for an unlit cigarette.

no backsies.

American Womanhood

i see her sipping tea
she wants to write
the Great American Joke Book

about consumerism
sour-milk yellow sniffling yolk but

they get in the way
the hardcover wesleyan
in a cable-knit sweater
the canadian monthly
masked in a methylin-soaked love letter

hands up baby
hands up

“But if I said it was the only thing that mattered
That everything else was play, was yarn, was
A 40-year-old Knock Knock joke, would you”

their theories enjamb me
up against the wall, headlines
like licorice fingernails
like bricks — she draws blood

the thinking woman left to only sit
and listen to what’s left of rain
sweet and silent, waiting, pried
loose by synthetic rubber.