Poem of the Week

I do not regret the things I said to that wall

stories about hand ratios in brawls

and a hotel kitchen entrance killer

and steamboats where they dedicate their one-night stand to

   driftwood

While we look at all the pretty kingdoms floating

   over our tents

      While we get the surplus treatment

Don't put your shoe on my shoulder

And call it a hand (one building makes a jail)

"that's a lot of people for

only a little bit of commotion"

The bookshelf looks alive to me

Alive and my opposition (until the devil lets me go)

My sidekick is the bootlegger

I tied up our friend as soon as a couple rich people acted like they

cared about him

A painting of a sun watched me end lives

The point I was making began scaring other patrons in the pool hall

"who would name themselves after this city?"

- to which I reply, "the only woman for me."

Calling my drug the scoundrel and cousin / an axe handle in its

   five minutes as a twin

Painting my walls with pieces of other walls

I wandered to the edge of the parking lot