you are drunk and dumb
and scared of me some

but it’s the curves in the road
that will snatch you in their black 

loom against the sky, it is the silhouette
of twilight purple mountain air, the humid hanging of it, the dew before it’s dew

the rank aliveness that will reach its cragged bone fingers
into your stick shift and knock the gears of your guts out and you are swept off

your feet like i wanted to be at every junior high school
dance but it would smite you with a jagged dead kiss

against the rugged hillrock and here i am trying to keep you
from having to feel all that and you say what are you what are you

waiting for?




i will not kiss another misanthrope. 
my throat knows the sputtery taste of ash
well what you think i don’t know you think

i don’t smell the same stink? did we not
meet in the same fetid alley? shut up
and know there is something after 

ragnarok more interesting than this
i am fixed on; ‘behold the great rondure,
the cohesion of all, how perfect.’