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Thursday, June 20, 2013


Loaded, she could have
taken a shot

at his intentions. High-
postured, shaking like
a spent cartridge.

He pulls cat hair
from the barrel. Fine mess
you have all made. Piss

moisture licks at his shoes. The names
in his address book slouch
in an inky draw. Rat carcasses

dot the floor. He teeters
paint cans on a mound
of silenced fur. Well, she agreed.

The rank spray of memory
burrows into the barn wall
with dust and lead. ¿Cómo 
se dice “alive”? He coughs.

Stellar work, honeycomb.
Paint, pull, splatter. Art buries bone.

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