Sharkskin

Smeared
shit is the best
kind of shit. It
admits itself,
confesses the state.
Whereas I, Monday,
all days, still
strap myself
into fabulous
sneakers, struggle
to keep
what oozes
out, in. This
would be an excellent
time to earn
an undergraduate
degree,
steer clear
of Ebola, as cows
steer up at the stars
at night. Another day
has left Texas
behind it. Time
to dismantle
all footwear and
sleep.

His Morning Commute

At tongues-length 
a woman 
savages
the cellphone she plucked 
from the garden.
No trespassing!
An "at" sign.
The question 
of "Where were you," when
"Houston" may only prove
an unacceptable 
answer.  This isn't 
the most awkward 
way to write you, but neither 
the least. The revolution 
will be autocorrected. We will all 
be autocorrected. 
Every day extraneous 
pieces 
snipped like the stems 
of a rose bush. My message
conveniently dropped
in a pile. What is
eventually 
due is eventually 
due, and what is 
eventually due
is the bill.
For the phone call,
for the ride,
for the thorns.