One night in June that I was President of the Concrete Mixing Company

A cadaver came along listening to a dead walkman.

I had bought a cassette of posthumous Luther Vandross recordings

So in bow ties we did the wet twist from the waist down writing letters to our private parts.

I am to myself the King of the locals.

My son studies how I shake the vinegar before my frozen army.

His hair will fruitily write his name in his casket once the exterminator is done with it

And gives me this post card of the ravine to start my heart up again.

I press on the gas. A high temperature sweat rolls down the forehead of the King’s corpse

And he pees softly on his feet and on raspberry bushes tucked between the black trees

Next to the abandoned train station. You’ve derailed the flower pots! and they’re not happy that their rich fronds and stems are down in the street spelling out

The name of the storm falling into the cash register for how many nights now?

You are only falling on the hen-house o wicked rain!

Obscuring with your icicles the splendor of my wife’s dreamy prune trees.