Occupied with pencil sketches
of smiling, batting female faces
It’s sitting on my bookshelf,
and there’s a ribbon on
a page that reads, "this is hell"
and count twice
I excel at keeping a spreadsheet clear of fragmented evenings
clear of color codes, clear of clowns in tears and clad in panty hose.
Romantic permutations, all calculated and dated,
freeze in ice, or burn at the warmth of the lighter.
I typed a short table
Just to see if I was able
Always void of chaste,
or, for that matter,
too many names.
Track Name: Dad's Dollars (Keys Version)
My dad taught me how to bake boston butt
But still won’t speak his father’s first name
Over an iced light beer, he confides to his favorite son
The way I plan on, if I have one
His mouth chokes on inflated pitch shifts and pauses
passing hot currents through his shaking teeth
oh dad’s filter is fading his sieve is stretched passing dollars and dimes
He was choosing whether to cry or drink ron
with stoned friends at the fraternity house
The aftermath of a missed exam for a class
he ended up passing during his first run through college
I am now as old as he was managing some factory
and chasing my mom in Puerto Rico
Track Name: 3 Animals (Keys Version)
Sing to me,
Pack-less dog, gone prowling
for rabbits and a crying bitch. Lick your
grey-knuckled fists, fucked up from hunting practice.
And distance the territorial piss
from the coed coyote clique.
I’m a shut-out with a gun,
in the parking lot of a
South Florida commons.
My gullet is cut with the body odor of
an at home cook, packing the disposal,
shouting at, and covering up the rotten
with his meaty digits,
the way a manhole would.
There you go, sore simian,
Master of the harem. Eyeing women,
Itch-less on your face, which is roosted
with landing insects and the many eggs they’ve laid.
Riverside you roast the crocodile with jokes,
And a toothy smile, pointing out to the broken water,
Where babies fall and their mothers follow.