the bro
ken road
side sneak
er goes no
where fast

to be famous in poetry
is no mean feat: just
follow the right folks
& post pithy comments
while intermittently raging
at all the motherfucking
fascists ruining the world
including that guy who
cut in line at Starbucks
& people who walk cats
on a leash & bad drivers

the streetlight flicks static
hums against the night &
the dog doesn’t sniff odd
piles or wrappers for once
& the kid in the stroller drops
a bear & the mother’s ass crack
says hello & the less I know
about things I do not know
the better the world will be

the last
pecan roll
lurks in
the box
waiting
wanting
longing
for love
oh my
darling
you are
too sweet
& it is
too late
for such
seductions

advice

every writer says
this worked for me
but they lie:
you must listen
for a hand open
in silence & the
buddha smiling
& only then
will you know

there’s a hollow
in the grain—
a road littered with
signs & leaves
& the sound of
letting go that holds
the shape of storms
carved by words
we didn’t say
on barefoot kitchen
tile & wrapped
in curtains like
the moon slipped
behind clouds
when the record
skips & the
needle wears down

the telephone wires
hum like violins,
ghosts in the lines
like your name
on the wind
when the dog
barked at trucks
where our words
used to land &
train whistles sliced
through midnight’s last dark;
the sky is a wound
that refuses to close
& the stars sing
a hymn in reverse