generic as a stamp
go mail yourself
I'll leave you my Nag Champa.
By the time I get back, it should smell alright.
slide, pop--slopping sweet
sinks the seven ball, side pocket
you can bite--but only when it's
dark out
He shakes his ten-dollar bill in a leathered hand
studded with carats, impatient for the check.
They brought me my cat--dead and
frozen--and I thought they would kill me.
The church is like the bank--
It's not actually real.
May 2005
No comments:
Post a Comment