The Situation Only Appears Familiar
Our scabland has fallen from the moon...
a meal some Revelations monster refused to eat.
Sitting at a window of a tumbledown
beef country hotel, you want something to happen,
Hitched to stumbling ways, the dying goes on...
with every call out of the alfalfa-green phone.
an attachment for self-reprisals.
Gold sun, honey skin, kisses... love-groans.
You're only good, she giggled, for one thing.
You ran off too many sweet girls,
using Edvard Munch's notion
about paintings left in blizzards,
It does them good to fend for themselves.
Vegas: hundreds of tequila bottles back.
The Great Plains? Countless whiskey ditches ago.