Swarthy awnings yap about water bugs.
Jackhammers sneeze like bedridden mandarins.
Antsy pigtails jump double-dutch, out of breath.
I pause to unhitch the wire from fence post and feel the flow of wind traffic, parallel with earth, hurry toward the other side of town. The horse senses it too, the busy sound of morning energy.
How is anyone supposed to know
what goes through the head of a horse
climbing into a rickety wooden chute
that appears the last one of its kind, too?
What you should know, James, is that too many selfies vacates the soul and ironic-narcissism is still narcissism. But so anyways: later on this week when you’re waiting for departure on a plane that lays on the runway like an anaconda that’s just eaten a rabbit, you’ll look out at the rain-slashed tarmac…
The Actor is laughing, holding a whipped cream can to his mouth, black jeri-curls dangle in front of his eyes. He talks about how whipped cream doesn’t have too many calories. And you notice that he’s a lot like your friends, that he’s simple, recognizable.
Derrick never drew a cartoon. Derrick never owned a gun. The Secret Service keep certain people away from presidential events. Even if they take out a second mortgage to buy an Armani tux and give ten grand to the NRA, some people still can’t get a ticket to the inaugural ball because they once drew a cartoon with Bush #41 sitting in a Kuwaiti jail cell.