Like the antenna
of my childhood
home,
wind blown and
not quite
pointed at Memphis
across the
cotton crop
blooming white,
and the good
stations all fuzzy,
the sound not quite
right;
like the hustler
that fucked Jesus
pocket full of silver
guts ready to burst
straining against
his own
hangman's noose
in a friendly
field of blood,
like standing
too close
to impressionist
paintings
on cold slick
museum floors
the beauty
lost according
to perspective-
unable to
back up,
these are
pieces of
my burden
this is what
it is
on the down
days.
