Oh Henry, Oh City-Honey
"Life" is not a sentence, it's a word, a fragment
of moonrock joyfully poked at
by a heavy scientist
whipping himself on grape Mad Dog.
My friendly dropout acquaintances
used to shoplift the stuff
along with frozen burritos from the Food Lion they stocked shelves for.
They lived in a townhouse, four of them,
and they didn't pay their electric bills
or empty the cat's shitbox very often and, being poor
as a motherfucker, they didn't care for ivory tower politics either.
I've got my local language; you've got
that spotlight in the mirror. I sleep
in a nemesis neighborhood that eats away my days,
and you wake up to the sound of water, lapping at a dog.