they’ve nine legs
and they’ve never
swallowed back—

let ’em ride let ’em
rock let ’em
roll until their souls
are full

—OR—

stand them up on stakes
while their wives are
bleeding, burn them
while they hang as
the jury watches on;
desecrate their people,
erase their history,
put their bullets in them
that they swear are fair

…or just leave.

freckles on pickled pears
prickly by nature
fractured at birth

lying in wait by
the winds of the
Western seas

easily, snipped ripe
and sniped early,
low ’n slow for

the taking, but
no!—you’ll
have a seizure

trying to seize these
as these are not
yours—no, they
are not yours—

like peach plums
oranges, apples to
apples, dust to
dust (let it rot
let it rot)

but don’t talk
back! …just
listen…

because smoke sells
and this smoke smells
of something you
cannot tell,

and just like my
brother said, like my
father said, like my
aunt says, like my
Love understands
(more than I can ever say
times tenfold, and tenfold
exponentially forever after
that—!) like what
I mean to say is:

it’s not what you say,
fine gentlemen and ladies
and lasses and assholes
and calligraphers and
here-to-fors and ever-afters
and sooth-sayers and
truth-sayers and in-betweeners
and neithers and rare-spare-parters
and odds-n-enders and even-starters
and well-to-dos and well-to-donts
and what-might-you-have-yous and
what-have-you-nots, and whatnot—

to all who’ve wished
upon a star, who’ve
believed in fairy tales
and fables, who’ve drank the dogs’
piss from the dogs’ bowl,
who’ve bathed in moonlight
and basked in the afterglow
(reverberated off their own
cerebellum, stone-faced
without Medusa, Moai on
their own accord),
who’ve bowled three strikes
in a row on Thanksgiving
with no witnesses, given
thanks due to the forgotten
gods and goddesses,
to the filth and fine
powders and fabrics
they manage to manufacture—

to those who sleep
but don’t dream,
to those who
dream but don’t sleep—
to those who do
neither, and fucking
do it well!—
recount the ones
who called when
you couldn’t answer,
recall the myth in
the midst of your
madness, remember
to spit in the wind
and swallow hard
while it gleams on your
face and drips down
your jowls—

because it’s not what
you say, it’s how you
say it (and now you
say it)—

and I’d repurpose
that cunt plug for a bald
man’s scalp, trade that
tampon for Richard’s
cranium, if you catch my
wave, baby—if you have
a metaphysical surfboard,
to ride my exquisite
Northern drift.