Lousy Town

'Tis Autumn

Dead Doll Eyes

Dolls positioned 

equidistant in a car

the exact size of Kansas,

a charity case.

Late-afternoon... eventide...

Four dolls positioned in terms of

disengagement,

each staring out its

personal window,

dead doll eyes scanning,

scanning for Japan,

as their car,

the exact size of Kansas,

a charity case,

barrels.

One dolls nods,

its eyes dull:

dead doll eyes.

Night envelopes.

A Mack truck, down the highway approaches,

its headlights eat

the road,

burn the stars...

Bloody Old Sun

Slants

Sundry Sorrows

The Happiest

(I love the scent 

of fresh cut grass.)

I don't know if this will make you

the happiest little girl 

in the whole wide world,

but I hope so.

(I love the scent 

of fresh cut grass.)

The mower is black, mostly, 

with several bright orange

plastic parts.

No engine.

To cut is to hear 

the whir 

of the reel,

and to smell fresh cut grass

in quivering air,

insects rising.

(I love the scent 

of fresh cut grass.)

The crickets' constant

buzz, 

harbinger of autumn,

bitter gathering.

Attic dust as thick and soft 

as a slice of Wonder Bread.

A fly's desiccated carcass lies,

belly up,

on a window sill.

She waves good morning

to the old couple on whose
doorstep

she pissed a puddle last
week. Ignorant, they raise 
palms and smile like 

idiots.

Midnight cabin,

a woman shrieks,

the window illuminated,

blue.

Untie the string, lift the lid.

A whisper of rainfall...

Pedal up the steep hill,

panting,

ready to return. Walking

into kitchen,

radio on,

psycho daisies

running riot.

(I love the scent 

of fresh cut grass.)

We got there, though I don't know how.