Of course. My mind like mudded
creek water telling my daughter that
stuff we feel dribbles out. Life
keeps happening. There is gas-station
scotch the color of rust in the
hotness that leaves weeds lustrous.
There is tension between
Mahler dusk and Kakfa night
with no helping manual. You may
wake up flushed, the rumor
of wild poppies in a ditch
throbbing intensely. You may be
the pulse of the party. There
isn’t a single trail forward on the fork
of bored tongues. What’s hidden
comes out gurgling, burbling,
sloshing from the tap on Richard’s patio.
And my eyes like six ravenous horse-
flies. My eyes buzzed by the spillage,
my thighs soaked in the Bud
and my heart (my heart) like a
keg stand.
Poetry - ISSUE #27