Monday, April 5, 2010


He wakes up smelling like liquor
At 10 o’clock in the morning.
Pours his dreams in plastic solo cups
at the breakfast table. Places them
next to mugs of old grease.

His mama taught him how to cook,
so he would need no woman.

His mama taught him
there are no preservatives
for the future. Everything
is spoiled except for now.

Don't talk about my cousin.
He has a well prepared heart,
With jokes seasoned only for those
who have seen the world ass naked
with a 40, telling God about her day.

Give him a feverishly sweating beer
and a plate of food. I’m sure
he would die with his ribs dancing
together like wind chimes. And a parable
slow cooking on the tip of his tongue.

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