western records and my septic harddrive

the man lied about the ten gallon
hats that held only six
and johnny was rooting in
the scrap metal looking
for my graphing calculator
but i couldn't stand the concerto


it was cotton and eight after the evening
and mark is pulling at my hip skin
but I am busy rerehearsing my funeral
but the music is off and the foxtrot is wronged
so bathe me in coffee to forget the town
because I will


I am setting your pinned moths free
but that cat from last year
is chewing on their dust
and I am not pleased
but tin cans are planted
and whisper it is 1962

rain echoed blues sounds

whiskeyborn to the mommas
yester-ed, yes sir
and my dreams are lying of
curls-slain and tin can impatiens
grow out loud

you find romantics
in the bagel halves thrown
to children in shells
pink and eroding
like the long weekend

tattoo your face in
my armpit
then I will always know home
and when they sell me
to chickens, they can read
of the wrong

speak softer
into rain filled jugs
for my mouth cant stand the sound
click one and
two
and two
and static