Blood Words

Shoes off in another direction. Can't keep track
of the changes. Traveling with a jazz chart. Horns.

Under seal, I can tell you only approximately how
I feel. Vague as want and as exact as you expect-

who knows a lack? It's all locked doors. & I want
to paint them black. That must be rust, or someone

bled all over these bricks. Every death is a relief.
Wow, what a rational belief. Put that on the map.

We find you sitting in the cab of your pickup listening
to Manic Zebra while bees pollinate the orange grove.

Somewhere your illegitamate children are working
in the onion fields. The banker drinks ruby martinis.