Sexing chicks has gotten tedious
in the last few years. We now
always end up with a few young,
fat-footed fuckers that grope
over their mothers
and sisters- cause heads
to roll. Everything looks the same
to us, just out of the egg, or when
we wake to find the sun
has mucked around in our closed eyes.
But no card slid under premature
feathers helps to sate these dumb-shit
animals' insatiable urge towards
incest.
My mom wishes we would
kill them all
II. Fiction
My bookshelves are peopled
by too many impotent protagonists
for me to count. They've been rubbing
off on me.
I guess the spring might
force some sprouts from the sick seed, now
lying in the dry recesses of our
converted out-house, tool shed- hearted
fist blossoms, maybe sunchokes that could
fester into rossler. And I've sang so many
blues bemoaning the drooping, walkable,
clouds to think that there's a chance
the tubers won't turn fetid in their cellar
shelves.
I'm done hearing
of all the people I recognize myself in.
Where's the goddamn belt to knock the sense into/out
of my head when I really want it?
III. Trucks
The Ranger's bed
is caked with cow shit, so
it's impossible to tell
Amelia that the brown of her hair
might just be the prettiest
color I've seen. I can't make
myself believe the lie because-
my arm wrapped around her
flat against the peeling,
screaming, stupid, lipstick
red on the Ford's back gate-
I can see it's just the same tint
as that crusty manure.