The damned background.
1980s hospital bed.
A tiny opera.
Clamor us.
Little laws.
Submissive dog folk.
Falling asleep.
I’m not mad.
But the fire was set by me.
Sliver to see.
Deft as doubt.
Who says there is no money in poetry?
We were all 12 years old.
Unless we died at 11 and a half.
Hot regret, cold spaghetti.
I’m a broken traffic light.
Each night.
The hegira of these scrappers.
Good thieves.
Small hearts.
Funny farts.
Let’s go.
Dead bolt.
Mind, make up your god.
Of course, she is late.
Lame as can be.
Must be nice.
Put out the fire, boy.
With a birthday kick to the dick.
Hypothetical libraries.
You’ll figure it out.
Lift up the rug.
Sweep the belief underneath.