Dear Brandon Brown,

Your meat is illuminated on that city’s
loose, rusty rim, as the water flows out
of her hand and, man, can you believe that
as I caught a glimpse of the parallax
gang sign the whole damn block started
puffing it’s chest, like what hella wheeze

I seriously only think about buying
bowties and what I should be reading
but am not about—oh, I don’t know—
a hundred percent of the time!
Like when people read the bible
and think it’s real stuff in there, other
than snakes beating at the door
that is also your heart which is also
on fire and in the desert? Gawds
most oh-so lonesome ground, scorched,
with laymen dragging their knuckles

How is it the banks have risen up
against thee, who is really in control &
can you tell if the people stuck in their
cars can really feel any genuine heat
or reflections of self in the glass or of what
meaning self can be contained in a reflect,
and if we are products of the work we
commute to does that cause us to wither?

And so, the singer sits in front of a panel,
on the panel a bed is painted in white,
each hair on the singer’s head fades
and fails and withers, it runs through me
and the owl above us wails, it’s all
like that Tom Waits’ song where
the bows hang low but everyone still
fails and becoming and being the lost night

Doesnt’ this look like the dark
yet or can each panel of sky be removed
and place above other heads which are
also reaching up. So says that low moon,
we tilt our necks for, to slice and to make
of us the winter’s withered paw we wish
to be.

And Dear Brandon Brown, I’m sorry.

This poems has gotten away from me. This
is not the epic to you some would wish it
was, but I am but a humble servant of god
who only wishes simple rubies to form in the
palms of my hands for to melt all those miserable
fucking people in all the cubicles around me.