When I was smarter

I once drew a dead zebra on a bathroom stall.

I wonder if anyone ever wishes

there is a number to call.

The noose around the neck

likely dangles a deterrent.

Mosquitos bite

late parking lot nights

anyway it goes.

Hundreds and hundreds of kids continue

to check yes or no for love.

So much seems so much

easier than a bathroom blowjob.

So much seems so much better

than blood

but truck stops will never be

as sleazy as imagination.

The sun doesn’t shake his head

at my sexist pronoun

or for anything else.

In the grand scheme of things

a concert hall is full

of people singing

in their own marble

showers.

Another full moon empties

onto late night

pavement a thousand hipsters  smoking

cigarettes.

What if I leave and never

come back?

If I leave and never

come back

I could be going

to the grocery store for eggs

on a hung-over Sunday.

I could be hungry.  I could be

running around

an ugly lake tomorrow afternoon, or

using the bathroom

today.

A lone turd floats in the toilet.

If I flush it it will leave and never

come back.