Postscript: I Made it a Manwich Night

Alone at the trailhead of all the one-way roads.
Each lined with too much too hard work, too many crows
to eat, and flat-headed compromise. Only cold and long dead
stars to navigate by waving so long, suckers! from a billion year-
long wake of light—cold light…too cold? Too one-way? Too many
crows? No. Not tonight. There’s some booze left, new porno dying
to loosen its sash and sing all songs known by heart, eternally
grateful to be slurred again.

Pottystop with Local Chili

Fargo, you're a big-nippled,
saggy-titted, hairy-chinned bitch
that assraped me like I was a twink
in a pink tube top. Who knew

(OK...besides you) that to call
a cowtown a cowtown in a cowtown
while grazing amongst its cows
was tantamount to whizzing 

on the inhabitants' hooves? In my language
it meant—I like you, and I'm
eying your million dollar lofts...
with no this land

of all backyards...what the f*k?!
What do those things come with—
a freezer you can shove a whole
dead deer in, free handjobs, what?!?!

The Emptiness, Armed Only With Dreams, Brings Singular Shapes Into The World

Like the thousand-mile
fungus living under the earth,
there is a hunger big enough
to dream the likes of World Buffet—
golden-lit steam tables echo back
like moonlit barges in the harbor—only
the color of the squares within differs:
pink = sugar/orange = deep fried/
green = only if we must (and who
says so? That skinny prig last night
on 20-20? You call that a doctor?
You call his pinched scoldings
musts?). Look around, honey—this
here says must.