writing is nothing
some money
numbers piling up in some distant house

love comes back
tagged with a rejection slip
old news
potent inaction

fiction like mud
tracked in the house
a gun smoking in the ribcage
metal shavings beneath the vise
a stink on the couch
money tacked on the clothes line
everybody dead
bookshelves empty

a laugh over a barroom ashtray

pay me for a snapshot
a toilet filled with drugs
a mouth filled with shit
hookers,
dwarves
sex soaking the backseat
of a Volkswagen

an hour, two, three
we push and pull noises
together,
together

but, My Love
send me no money
for heroes
who break, peel, scream, crawl
for a word
that blows through us all

instead, imagine redemption

write it, send it
and wait forever