lawns buzz with
suburbanites & their
crisscross plots mixed
with soiled sob stories,
the world a reality show
run by ink-mad producers
hell-bent on canned applause
& percentage points & meanwhile
next door Kenny admires a beer can
from the deck of a Cub Cadet
finally enjoying the privileged
life of a bastard with no regrets
since his wife left with some
schmo around the block
& the kid across the way
with the skater girlfriend
has no idea what awaits
ten or fifteen years down
the road but isn’t that the
province of youth & the
price we pay for hope?

coffee from
that place
smells like
burnt eggs
& tastes
like some-
one spilled
sunlight
into an
oil pan

crossing missouri
in three hours via
interstate 70 from
the driver’s seat
is a blurred ribbon
of steel & asphalt
slicing between
meth & reality

one month
of posting
these scribbles
& notes in
the ether &
all I have to
show for it
is a few extra
stray electrons

microwave eggs
don’t taste like
powdered eggs
which is good
I guess because
why would you
want to eat
hot powder?

summer breeze:
skin sweats beneath
mosquito hover

go with the cliché
for father’s day:
grill, tie, blood test