Board sign. Black paint.
Wind over the barren waste.
Dust storm. Gut wound.
Three, two, one, toward my doom.

Population 41.
When it's over and done, done,
I have another number
I've assigned to Him,
and by my ******* blood,
He's going to get His.

Population 41.
Does this shanty even have a doctor?
High five the sign as I pass it,
with a ****** palm print.

Welcome, 42.

I slithered my hand
across your chest
and your heart
wrote its story
on my palm
one your
voice
fails
to
n
a
r
r
a
t
e

Have you met the creases in my hands
Shocked you must be to know
That I've known them all along

an art
stand in
Miami deco
by January
dry she'd
be very
warm with
canary yellow
sneakers ran
the heart
of the
sun yet
poolside in
orange jubilee
that orkÿ
would retire
at noon