you are not a fisherman
but if you can imagine it,
the sea will swim towards
you with open arms,
singing, shifting, spitting salt
into your opened eyes.

burning baby
bodies; bathing
books. surfing
crackhouse couches;
catching *****,
getting guns
and gonorrhea.

i asked my mom what's death
what's *** and **** and debt
she boiled me an egg,
said not to worry yet.

good people travel together
in tamed wolf packs, tearing throats
for each other's sakes
because a good person will,
when left to his own devices,
carry bad ones on his back until it breaks.

poems are snippets of wasted time;
a collection is a shattered clock.
even a good poet
is a poor one
and especially doomed
when writing about writing.

i asked for your 2 cents
you said "sorry dude, i'm broke"

you are the emotional equivalent
of an empty bladder.

me, fossil
you, archaeologist.