Before his stroke Dan’s father would flit from branch to branch so that he could keep his eyes fixed on Dan, never letting him out of his sight. After the stroke his father lay in the hospital bed, his lips twisted like his sheets, slurring his words, flitting nowhere. 

It’s 3:06 a.m. on Whistlestop Boulevard, which is the main drag through the Whistlestop Neighborhood proper, the best neighborhood in the best county in the best state of the entire country—and if you think I’m exaggerating come on down to Whistlestop Boulevard and you will be amazed.

The fifth mug of espresso should finally color any ripped pieces of cardboard schemes that surf around the stream.

Maybe forever Medusa’s quick look
from under her cowgirl cut
catches you at the party

Carmen's a fusty dresser, lace and pearls, normal looking, which puts her out of Nick's league, plus she's never given him any reason to like her except his first day at the office when she handed him the standard corporate welcome basket: a canned ham, a selection of chips and a bag of peanuts.

Every sunset is bloody. Nations
just wait for fireworks to pop off

Hands dig into the wood of the chest
Hands to kill the wood in the chest

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.

This is what I do when I have to move forward
even when there is no place to go.
My little wild dog and I are out in the wild grass

We think that perhaps God is hiding somewhere
in the numbers, spitting out ever more
digits to Pi, that irrational lullaby

you take your radio 

down to the sea

Sunglasses grimy with dust. Pencil sharpeners from different eras.
A VHS recording of my seventh birthday.

I remember how much we watched the stars 
in our pre-screen silence, spotting sister sigils 

Violet ladies of night dreams stroll around the rooms.

Because your lungs are heavy as deadwood
and your eyelids wax and wane, words caught 
in your teeth like a dark art, a snake plant

Let’s imagine your ashes getting peppered 
with marijuana and smoked all night long

Outside the 
courtroom
we wait for
the public 
defenders

Your husband’s ghost wrestles an Iberian Ibex outside your house. He sports three bellies these days, including the two protruding from the sides.

We put a trash bag over his head.
He’s a more acceptable punching bag
when he doesn’t have a face.

I lay my mosquito gnawed neck on the rusty railroad tracks and yank down my tighty-whities.