and what the indians want
is their land back
what the days taste like is dirt
a waitress in the bathroom
snorting crank on one on the floor
with her wrists slashed
and both of them live and
who they hate is themselves and what they
find are men who will love them
for this
and do the stories even matter if you
know how they'll end?
is a dying sun as important
as the bank
foreclosing on your house?
listen
all i've ever written about is myself
no one deserves to die on
their knees but it happens
look at lorca
look past him
all of these lives ruled by pain and fear
these trailers at the edge of town
at the edge of the highway
your boyfriend in a bedroom here
with someone else's wife
a hundred christs
nailed to a hundred crosses
beautiful in
the cold grey light of march
and then meaningless