Wall to wall
and shoulder to shoulder.
Small talk screamed
over pounding bass.
Dancing on the edge
of unproductive fantasy.
Apparently no fans
Of William of Ockham.
She tasted like beer and cigarettes.
The ballroom
of the boulevard.
Now lit by blurring street lights.
Traffic signals blinking,
changing for no one.
The satisfaction of purity
and a 4am walk
right down the middle.

Quick Stop

Bugs swarm the vapor lamps.
Pushing back
against hot, muggy haze.
…Southern night.
rolling papers.
tins of tobacco
and rear view mirror air fresheners.
And All is silver and grey
on the CCTV
hanging from the wall.
Little girls
and grown fucking men…
Gangsta rap.
And everyone’s guilty.
Used cars on chrome rims.
Oil stained concrete
and the smell of gasoline.
Jockeying for respect,
they banter and brag.
Passing around cigarettes…
needing to belong…
There’s no one to blame.


There is no justice
on Route 51.
Only vengeance.
They cook it out back
in a silver trailer,
then move the chicken north
to Memphis or higher.
The Insane Vice Lords
and The Gangster Disciples.
The fire chief
and the sheriff.
On a single lane road.
There was no moon
when she burned.