Tuesday, January 31, 2017


Inside me, there's
always this

one man
who's homeless—

filthy, his greentooth grinning

as he pedals and pitches
what you could only

graciously call his
theories of "general relativity."

But what's worse,
there's also usually

another man in there—
with his black

and stiff collar, so
pious, clean, and holy

that he will not admit
the sheer existence of the other

which would first be necessary
in order to ignore him.

From there, it's always
the same old

ache of a story—

one of them
feeling compelled

to move around, shiftless
and aggressive, but earnest—

while the other
just likes to take

his sweet time—
saying little, moving

penitently, almost

slowly, as if
on purpose—

so that everyone else in town