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BOREDOM RAINS
At the Wal-Mart,
a rainy Saturday afternoon
some big goon
ink-scribbled denim jacket & pants
sashayed past all the checkouts
wearing a French maid's cap,
a safety-pin pierced nipple
visible through a strategic shirt tear.
He got the response he craved
as he passed, casually chatting
with some other fat friends
all built like bowling pins.
Maybe he's in a band.
Maybe his momma held one tit
back too often. Who cares?
But all the registers began clucking
and tiny flightless feathers shook
in inarticulate consternation.
No doubt he and his buddies
consider redneck-baiting a sport.
"The Wal-Mart Rebels."
One begins to appreciate
the quiet dignity of the back-alley addict.
When rednecks are your heroin,
it's time to consult the timetable
for the Kurt Cobain Express.
PIECE BY MOONLIGHT
I like insomnia
inside you. I'm
the golden carp
sucking your rich
mud. My whiskers
flutter, the abstract
death. No fear.
No floor but swallow.
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