the dank, funny music that resonates down your spine
when you walk drunkenly, at night, through a clothesline,
the ketchup behind your eyes when thumbed
by a glenn danzig hitchhiker,
despite the backyard’s inner strength, a square,
pulls-no-punches view attempts passage through
the exoskeletons of patio furniture and bird feeders,
paintball castration, your squishy vision synthesizing
a highway of quantum backflips, numbed axe cells
chopping the air, forming a fake pixel pavement
the snoring the next morning on
your back in the grass eliciting whiskered whimpers
and yips and saber drool
‘don’t be afraid’
says either the dog’s head or the sun behind
the dog’s head, or the collective inconvenience
you try to dose with wild aimless slaps
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