24

the mirror is oblong & at 

an odd height. perfect 

for our many crotches 

to be framed by. men

would decorate this way,

i knew, let it go, smiled

for a different photo. 

nobody plays pong 

with actual beer anymore. 

everyone has electronic

cigarettes in their hands. 

i stare, sit back, ease 

into the incense of their

exhales, get struck through

my middle by music 

so unhealthy & saturated 

with fat, busy booming 

from all four corners. 

i’m possessed by cinnamon 

spiced spirit & infected 

with whiskey, celebrating 

Dia De Los Muertos by 

downing canned margaritas, 

pointing fingers at “Who 

owns this house?” wondering

what happened to celebrating

birthdays with cakes & shots

of root beer– those burps 

tasted better, you know.

PEARSALL

You eat peanuts shell and all. You like that 

about yourself. I know because you tell me

a lot, as though I’ve forgotten and could forget

a detail about you. Mr. born in Texas, 

descendant of peanut farming men. 

You haunt my bags of trail mix with each 

of your forefathers. 

You look like Mr. Peanut of Planter’s Peanuts,

the way you grin. 

The world’s largest peanut is in your hometown

for Christ’s sake. 

I can’t bite into a PB&J and feel pleasure 

without guilt. 

Your girl’s got hair the color of honey-wheat bread. 

You said you’ll marry her and she’ll have your 

pretty babies who’ll have your nutty eyes and suck nuts

instead of her nipples cause she’s too damn precious 

for that, and you know, anything that comes from you

devours.

THE SKY IS A GUN THAT SHOOTS OUT STARS

I saw the meteors! Cruising back 

from bumfuck Iowa, I’m deprived 

of my senses in the inner and outer world

going 100mph down the interstate 

at midnight without a seatbelt on. 

My car hiccups. 

It’s 23 years old and the gas cap door 

won’t open no matter how many pens

I break trying to pry it. 

If I crashed, I’d die for sure 

and the road doesn’t need another white cross beside it. 

I think of not wanting to add to the tragedy

Shakespeare never got to write about reckless driving. 

The stars and clouds and sky 

agree because he wrote plenty about them. 

My body flies out of the windshield 

in my mind. Shatters the glass, 

a carcass in the soybeans. 

I tilt my head back. Close my eyes 

for only a moment. I never swerve as my foot eases 

up off of the pedal, my speed dropping slowly. 

I made wishes tonight. They won’t come true but wits 

have nothing to do with numbness, so I did it anyhow, for you— 

for what small, foolish pleasure I find in all of this pain.