You can eat shit and fucking die
and no one will blink. Hawking,
hand reached halfway toward intercept,
your upchuck ball of nasal garbage
spiking radar, but what is a fuck to do
with a handful of someone else's
mouth snot
gesture taken to a wave to strangers
across the street. The bait shop owner
is out on a smoke break with a pistol
on his hip and gray hair slicked back
against the wind, and sure he did not
check the weather before the mirror.
Rain is shit, ain't it? If you are not born
a duck, then yeah. Think about what
the hell you doing for once
continues to rattle off in the mind like
walking into your study and seeing
the buck head for the first time over.
You can eat shit and fucking die.
You are garbage and your pussy smells
like ten day old fruit creeping through
kitty litter to the top of the garbage can
with no lid, rain drenched and soon
to be sun raked when the weather improves.
For dicks sake, that ass across the street
needs to not be smoking while waiting
with the rest of the parents coupling
'til the bus arrives. After school. Toddlers.
Sky breaks face and face turns down
to petals knocked flat against concrete.
Laced back up, before thunder rolled,
twelve hours back, cranked
watched hands rip through
the see through shit like a wave lengthed camera
pointed at a building ghost shipped and
the schizo excuse for a season
crashes its gearbox into hard reverse.
The blossoms are breathtaking.
The Blue Jay too.
I did not forget my camera.
I forgot you.
Until the horn blared,
walking into traffic,
eyes at the tree line
yesterday this time of year. Excuse me.
