My throat, grimy as the 101,
every day I swallow every car
on this grimy expressway
heading home,
step over the grime and dirt
of my carpet floor.
My heart broke a long time ago,
my vacuum only about a year ago.

My hanging television finally fell
and cracked on some past industrious award.
I had to untangle all the knotted cords
and plug them into a new power supply.
Fantômas’ bluish mask now looks red.
My hepatic foetor smells
just like the breath of the dead.
Oh somnolence, stalking me,
peripatetic somnolence,
any panegyric is analepse.

Desu Desu Desu Desu
Desu Desu Desu Damn
Desu Desu Desu Expectoration
Desu Desu Gardyloo
Desu Poo
I’m the groom of my own night stool.

I sit outside the Pita Grille to eat
and watch all the merchandise being returned
to the department store across the street.
I have my gyros, I have my chips,
I have my Diet Coke cloaked in Styrofoam.

A wheelchair bum rolls up next to me,
up to my table as if he knows me,
“Are you gonna eat that hummus?
Because I can eat the rest of that hummus.”
His grimy fingers blackened by wheelchair wheels,
his rotted teeth widen ready to make a deal.
I hunker down like a felon in prison protecting his meal.
“I can see you’re not gonna finish that hummus
and I can eat the rest of that hummus.”

“Get the FUCK away from me.
I’ll pick you up and throw you into traffic.
I’ll throw that fucking chair on top of you
while you’re dying and bleeding in the street.
Get the FUCK away from me.”