Get down.
Get surrounded
by the cactus arms
of a filing cabinet.

A badge numbered 666
at a cross in the road,
a lie on digital audio tape,
a ten-foot pole and a hole in the ground

where a crushed tin can
on its lid, full of fat neuters,
muttered, "I think she's dead,"
and homebodies choked the walkway.

Get a frown from morning clock radio.
Get a life and set it aside.
Get a job and get off the governor.
Get away from here. Get back. Get died.

04/05/2009

Posted on 04/05/2009
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