I motion the black beggar at the intersection into my car. / We drive along and interrupt each other. / He doesn’t know he’s going to Burbank but he is...

We’ve entered the land of Jesus, Jacuzzis, / And jet skis.

Those who have spent / all their money go trailing about for days / on end and die of exhaustion. Discreet / services collect the bodies before anyone has time / to notice them. How do I know about this? I don’t.

Such a beautiful orange trumpet! / Sometimes a keyhole is shaped like a cloud. // Those same words escaped me three times / because I wanted their sincerity // to sway people to have faith in me.

Something about this room is off. / The timbre of its air. / The flavor of its existence.

The boat of death moves soundlessly / Across the room. // Then the terrible gift:

Brake light out; kid turned on by a doll. / Serpentine belt blew, melted the motor. / The speed limit is not the speed limit. /

I lament my dead with real man-tears. / My sorrow settles all fears. / The gods make light this head they’ve crowned. / I snap trunks, scrap cities, pound beers.

Such a beautiful orange trumpet! / Sometimes a keyhole is shaped like a cloud. // Those same words escaped me three times / because I wanted their sincerity // to sway people to have faith in me...