i am writing.

clowns, dream
me good.

i wrote a poem.

i felt like a bad writer.
i called on all
fawns and baby men:

step to the mics—
open drilling in a random
survey the pen, too, so

jarring in my mind
‘cause i don’t pickle shit
‘cause i don’t got brine.

and the woof of the hawklet
as in innocent chomping
rabbits set in

Kansas

the booth with the back out
a hand with a home as
a boyfriend’s boat.

in a poem i wrote a depressed
kitten’s fur tips sulfured as
matches—amazing—blasting

whole batches
and when it scratched
it rained money,

soda and a coney,
three or four fewer
pills than i needed to make it

in a Vegas buffet
my first time through;
i lost it all to a prostitute

the second time. the third
rhyme, in Colorado—
i ate avocado

today, so i feel healthy;
i’ve written nothing becoming—
the opposite of accruing

wealth.