I watered the plant
and thought about my mother;
I threw the dog a piece of meat
and remembered the time he killed a chipmunk.
someone told me I should slow down;
be a craftsman with my words.
why would I do that?
they’re not even my words,
scattered across the time continuum,
resonating with pitch and gasoline.
I think about the time I ran out
and got stuck on the side of the highway
in the middle of fucking January.
so much for craftsmanship.
I can’t even keep my tank full.
On the Hill Road
I’m filled with emotion;
at Camp Ellis I feel right at home.
straight and to the point,
no cutting peoples’ hearts out
with a dull knife.
there’s not enough time
for that sort of mutiny.