Ticonderoga No. 2

There’s still a mark

where the yellow did slip

& the lead did rip

pink skin.

 

What’s gone was once graphite.

It seems the secret to staying

is simple:

puncture deep enough.

Sense of Smell

 

In the nose. Notes of copped-feels and still smoldering Marlboros, accented with sweat and beer.

It was a place she’d loved. Loved to gyrate with businessmen. Loved to slip in a puddle of whatever and tonic, and cackle as her ass sopped-up the mess. Loved to move jerkily and call it dancing.

Some shitholes you have to smell to believe. Those were her words.

He inhaled the bar into existence. Those were his.

On Tequila

The moon’s been candied

& hung above the floor.

Another thimbleful &

shit.

Even the mirror’s slurring

its reflections.

On Magical Realism in the South

A nebula of insects  

skulk between the pines.

Their wings chip the quiet

& the firewood snaps

like bone.