Of a Lunatic Hitchhiker at a Rest Stop
(During a Tornado Siren)

They never stop talking
When you see them, when they see you,
Through misted eyes and blue lids,
Thick lips and weathered faces,
Sweaters bulging with the few things,
The everythings,
The lives and deaths we put to the curb,
As though we’d never need
To live in a cardboard box.
As though our lives will never depend
Upon a newspaper,
Some cold night,
When the street lights show us the rubble
Of the pasts of other men who have forgotten.
And ever so slowly, through the needle,
Or merely through the long nights
Of fear and loneliness,
They never stop talking.

Pillow Hair. The kind that doesn't tickle.

Let the sidewalk crack,
Let the children play,
Let the crickets chirp,
Let the communists sell their books,
Let the Martha Stewarts of the world lie down at the end of the day,
Unable to sleep
Unable to stop, and
Let me lie here, and smell your hair, and let it all be,

Because I cannot be anywhere else.

The Lost Generation

Removed while submitted for publication.