I’m tired of pretending I’m not
a bitch-ass rock star from Mars

escaping from underneath
the unanswering machine

without philanthropic avenues
and a deep passion for steam

Beauty operators command good money
and tough is putting mildly

the treatment you’re going to get
as authors in eternity

Where the Weeds Are
West Eats Meat

The Ultimate Tiara
But is the unironic vocative even possible today

with cities measured in forgiveness
Music is among the better things

transparent little knobs on our temper
while remembered dreams are reuptaken

by the unconsciousness and forgotten
as it was the Indian manner

to vanish into the landscape
with a minimum of indolence

containers of American atmosphere
shipping westward

Everything I feel is like a magnet
This isn’t the mother of all anything