We moved into the new place
and there was someone already
Mice in the walls
that made their way down through
the vent above the stove
and had themselves quite the party.
Trouncing through the cornmeal
eating through spice packets
leaving droppings everywhere.
And under the sink
where the gettings were not nearly
We had to throw everything out
when we could hardly
But we set up traps
and flushed enough bodies
to grace the cover of Serial Murder Monthly
a couple times over
and soon the place
And we stayed there a year
and 7 months,
really made of a home
If anyone knocked,
Doors Become Unhinged,
The closer went down with a migraine
so it was fastball by committee.
The starter trying to go as long as he could.
Everyone else on a pitch count.
Trying to stay ahead of the count
from the mound.
And the batters on the other side
were instructed to wait on each pitch
as if waiting on a bus.
To extend the count
with runners in scoring position.
It was to be a matter of attrition.
Each trying to outlast their first sexual experience
As the crowd waved their foam hands
and bought up ballpark dogs.
In a way the pooches down at the local kennel
could only dream of.
Light Is Just the Dark Pretending
there is no glory in death,
the remembering of others
and much forgetting
until there is nothing left
but the whimpering
of rangy pack animals,
the mailman out of the job,
leaking jars of sea water
the myth and the
sit in the dark, no matter,
the light is just the dark
pretending, sit there as well
if you wish;
squash a bug underfoot
then ask it about glory
and the bug will not answer you
as it is now busy
with the business of
On the drive south
we pass many men along the side
of the interstate.
Chained together in pink jumpsuits
clearing the gullies and shoulder of debris.
A man in uniform standing behind them
with a shotgun.
In 90 degree heat
that seems to cook everything
like a Michelin star chef
no one can see.
Bullets seem a reason to double over
in the golden business of sun
umbrella man twirling clockwise
out of puddles of
and only your smile
I feel the sweat of the angels
so soft on my bone…
Nothing is perfect.
I won’t be long, said Hoffa
as he went for milk.
The plane crashed into the mountain
and it was reported that there were no survivors
which made the mountain angry
because it had survived, largely unscathed,
but no one seemed to care
And they asked me about the space program
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