You sleazy devils  in houses
bald from the eaves down,
you busy conflagrations of mulch,
you corn-swallowing anti-bowel movement
plastic bag pretend sculptors
who draw your hinterland nerves
back to the capitol for advising,
you correct numinous bartending
anti-collateral sideswiping cunnilingus meriweather
bellylaughing horntooting insoucient blips,
how can you tell me or anyone anything?
In the long and shifty afternoon
you slip your ears into the nation’s bread,
the salves of a nurse in curls
throb in the auras of your pancake thoughts,
an incapable cripple wheels past,
a fried genius in braces on the desert
and it really doesn’t matter,
things pass, things are good for a story
in difficult times,
and the players are paint gobs and material,
so how is there a happiness in all
this Winnebago reality, someone might ask eventually.
The bones are full of spunk
in the spiritual saloon,
they charge gooks loony as dervishes
and long for Korea or Cypress
and slurp mud for the hell of it,
carbonate the wind
and exile a loaf of bread
with wrists purple from the blend of blood and sky,
they surround the new blooms and
is there a command? No,
so they make their useless circle good,
make do on a cliff edge.