Milwaukee>Indianapolis>Louisville>Charleston>Raleigh>Wilmington>Petersburg>Williamsburg

& we grew so             sick                  of              driving
heard Blurred Lines like 5000 times                sang to Royals about half as much
sand in your car from my soles & the palm tree bark I stole
kept leaning         knocking my feet
I found the tiniest shell.                        we saw a poorly memorized play of colonial times.
buxom woman angry as hell.          we almost stopped into a sprite's apothecary.
we met Shelley the woman then her as a man the next morning.
we saw a drag show          & were saved from luring eyes by Skye.
jug, box, and bottle of wine.                       running through the cemetery at 2 am,
falling on the stone steps,         your elbow ripped and bled.
we saw so many animals on walls, doorways: deer, pheasant, bear, fish.
we saw the baseball bat from hell.                 the golden boy david standing in early early
morning, modeling but admired by only us, awake in the street.

in  D.C. we lost the patience for traffic
in D.C. we couldn't park to see the Lincoln Memorial

in D.C. we met a cute girl with dreads from Michigan
in D.C. you smoked in stalled vehicular frustration

we drove under a mountain, we took turnpikes.
   we posted pictures so our mothers would know we were alive.
I stayed up for hours looking at Skye's sketchbook & felt romantic about
all this creativity inside us.

in Raleigh we went to sadlacks and barely heard men yell about their
wives to us in earnest. Why did she leave?? he asked.
on the dance floor a Puerto rican ballroom dancer confused you:
who was the leader & the follower?
at beaseley's we had chicken & waffles.     should have got your picture
with Mr. Raleigh Gosling behind the counter.            
in the Holy Rose we bought stones for our siblings &
Skye talked about her grandmother the occultist, painting astrology charts.
Rich gave you jasmine, how did he know. his wife was a libra.

we saw where Lincoln was shot and where the movie Lincoln was shot.

we drove through the night to home even tho your aunt tried to get us drunk & unable to drive.

ababbcc

tomorrow the internet will have vanished
tomorrow suits and mothers with children
will roam the streets and get to feeling manish
empty cranies in their guts will get filled in
with earth cold water and molecules by million
and everyone will kind of shut up
sew new beds of leaves and burlap









the color of a squirrel's coat
through walls of NITROGEN
are only sacred
and is all that is sacred
blues greys greens and brouwns with red and orange and all other colors
but the kind that can be found
when you're paying attention the way an infant does
like each moment is a disaster or upheaval
those wide eyes we keep coming back to

verse and meter are given a brush of the eyes, less wide
but a respectful brush
no man feels shame
no lady regret

Rhyme royal was going to be a company picnic for me
with everyone drinking whatever makes them feel
just adventurous enough without eliminating their personal values

but it's hard to have fun at a picnic when your shower emits only liquid rust and black calculous oil

internet will have vanished
no man feels shame
keep coming back to
eyes
regret
shame
fun
everyone

Rhyme Royale, Tazs Angels, Twin Peaks

The other night lying awake, after

watching Twin Peaks, & the scene

where Bob climbs & his silent laughter

moves with him to fill the screen;

I was terrified. I held my love obscenely

close to rid the ridiculous image. Only

way I could fare was to people Lynch's lonely

world with the plastic and strange

lustiness of Tazs Angels. Annabelle, all 

ass & hair, and Leena with her deranged

& silken black locks, the pictures she enthralled

us with; her morning head, all messy. At the mall

I imagine they would strut proudly and click

their heels past Bob's girl grubbing licks,

& I only hope that Agent Cooper should

swallow his coffee with great wonder,

what with them swishing past him & his wood

detective nose smelling the favors thundered

at the clubs they frequent. Their dances & drinks plunder

the crowd as they - call girls throned & loaned -

stuff their purses with the eye-fucker men, these drones

who mechanically leave after the deed.

In every video the house is empty of decoration

or personality markers, the walls are free

of paintings, the rooms bereft of furniture, or proclamation

of lives spent in normality. These girls are the translation

of every rap video I've seen, into breathing, caramel dolls.

I doubt in this small town if they could be lulled

into murderous labyrinths, into a train car, 

or outside of their house at all. The log lady 

I'm sure lives in their cupboard, scarring

her hands from stroking her wooden friend, the shady

backyard her night-time confession room. Ruby

is at her mercy, & Kinky watching with her drink.

"Spiritual confessions of three hoes", log lady thinks

none of this is real, or to last. How many

images must we scroll past to find the real

story of you, this murderer, or you, this twenty

year old hooker, or myself, this observer, feeling

weaker by the moment. If I could cradle this teal

cup that is Cecil Baldwin's voice. If I could read

your story without makeup or knife, if I could feed

myself without your hands. Many lights, 

malevolent and otherwise, carve me up at night.