I drive the same way that I write.
I met a lady on East German Street with a shepherd named Monkey.
It’s easier than telling the truth.
I’m trying to speak honestly.
Get off the phone and relate face de mono dos tres.
The vacuum is exposing itself.
Combat boots are pulling heavy water up the steeps of rocky memory.
The unsteady river jetty-crushing anthem:
masculine savatory last rights
know better than to get on your knees for a hunter.
The callous unheard wailer chants and groans,
deep-chested heaving, and women never fake it—
at the moment, reading, probly gonna crash soon.
Shenandoah moon, toenails in the mud,
toads beget the fog-wash and howl it in the brush:
soul unwinds, Earth grinds gripple in Her aching bones.
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