Smoking wet cigarettes in the back
of a jon boat waiting on this mad rain to blow
its load across the lake
and skate off satiated to washboard waltz with a pillow-faced
old timer in alligator boots
and a caterpillar mustache
She pulls me aside her spit tastes like piss or
beer her tits sweating
Tells me to run for ice
Slicker suit tuxedos scrambling through
the potted plants houseboat neighborhood like this is
the last deluge anyone will have a chance
to drown in
Where’s that little girl?
Where’s that lonely woman’s child?
The dance floor can’t hold up under this much
weight much longer
Mama Sue Xien smells like chicken talks like chicken
Wǒ hěn xiǎng cóng nǐ de yīnnáng xī huīchén
Close the shop for the afternoon to
pull pale ghost shrimp from the shallows in droves in the
blood-stained coveralls and broken fish
nets of a starving family
A gallon of gasoline and a quart of oil should get us home
She leans into my ear and tells me
to wait by the car after work
Her thick swollen lips crowded around a jade glass pipe
packed tight with glowing buds
Mosquitoes skirting the edge of that silver smoke like wolves in
the darkness beyond the campfire thirsty for action violent
instinct trespassers of our civility
I would curse her the she-witch arms of faded blue
tattoos but she is damn good
with her hands
Three bags of ice and a glazed honey-bun
Hé jīngyè zài tā de liǎnjiá
01.2013
of a jon boat waiting on this mad rain to blow
its load across the lake
and skate off satiated to washboard waltz with a pillow-faced
old timer in alligator boots
and a caterpillar mustache
She pulls me aside her spit tastes like piss or
beer her tits sweating
Tells me to run for ice
Slicker suit tuxedos scrambling through
the potted plants houseboat neighborhood like this is
the last deluge anyone will have a chance
to drown in
Where’s that little girl?
Where’s that lonely woman’s child?
The dance floor can’t hold up under this much
weight much longer
Mama Sue Xien smells like chicken talks like chicken
Wǒ hěn xiǎng cóng nǐ de yīnnáng xī huīchén
Close the shop for the afternoon to
pull pale ghost shrimp from the shallows in droves in the
blood-stained coveralls and broken fish
nets of a starving family
A gallon of gasoline and a quart of oil should get us home
She leans into my ear and tells me
to wait by the car after work
Her thick swollen lips crowded around a jade glass pipe
packed tight with glowing buds
Mosquitoes skirting the edge of that silver smoke like wolves in
the darkness beyond the campfire thirsty for action violent
instinct trespassers of our civility
I would curse her the she-witch arms of faded blue
tattoos but she is damn good
with her hands
Three bags of ice and a glazed honey-bun
Hé jīngyè zài tā de liǎnjiá
01.2013
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