None of this is real, so don’t
worry about it. All my clothes
are torn and reveal recent meat
snow prowling the turnpike
thin indoor lights. I roll a fatty.

Recently, it snowed meat here
and my clothes tore me a new one
over it. Muscles condense into lucid
dew away graveyards fed by rivers
ending in spray, little duffle-bag boy.

What stock options do you provide?
What about straying into profit sharing

stares out, starlit night, all across you ached-up
silhouette? Who was never more polite
making sure you got paid thursday.

There’s something lying flat
in the road over there. Could be
you dream mints and cables, squalls
like pyrite tell you
I am some king. I am sofa
king. You’re a gentle blow-up

generally, ordering skulls in
dark corners of the house to
somnabulate, huddled
gingerly snapping up your book.
The pages to the touch are water-
honed scales. Just lie back on

the couch, Rosencrantz; your pockets
rasp with the noise of sullen rocks.