[for two boys]


the ceiling of my face is wrong & if I’m ever going to accomplish
anything worth a spam I’d better stop drinking every night. He
stabbed the filmmaker in the street, off the scooter, wrote a

poem & skewered the chest quiet & garish before trafficked
Hollanders panicked squirrelly to news vans. Only the best cities
burn. Only assimilation here is a mass of alienated passports

pitching torches onto boutique floorboards, for that they used to
slow roast or hunt the banish’d property, cheese wheel ears or brand
the cheek with a searing letter. We’re on a more civilized

planet now. When my spacecraft crash landed on your moony
shoulders I woke up with pulverized legs & a powerful urge to redo
the basement. Native speaking - so native behaving, have

you ever kneeled behind an idling truck & become the state of West
Virginia? Three generations from now she’ll understand why the best
math can’t Febreze theocratic economies, how

moneys never burn & she’ll walk her dog around the statue of two
youths hanging from an electric fence, their bronze skin like running
iodine & the odors of coin remind the pocket of drippy

iron loose from noses. All wrong, native slave quartered & changed
the same, falling ceiling of gasoline & homasote, your
homesteading grandfathers shaved their beards, never grew

their fortunes back