The Promised Land, apparently, is thick with pines.

Around here, the river smells
like brimstone.

The 24-hour bait shop on the avenue makes its money
selling methamphetamines.

An old dial-tuned radio, set to an AOR station, sits on a shelf
above the crayfish tank.

Through the static, Rick Danko sings about believing in hexagrams.


What shape is the closest synonym for lonely?

Maybe it’s the ampersand. One of Klee’s dots that went
for a walk and got lost,

preferring vertiginous loops to straight lines—

like Thelonius Monk, wearing a white fur hat and
improvising on ‘Epistrophy.’

His piano sounds anxious, an eighth of a beat
out of time,

percussive like the moon when she sashays down
the hallway in a pair

of knee-high black come-fuck-me boots.


I want the moon to be Grace Kelly, the way Hitchcock shot
her first scene in Rear Window

soft focus lens, tight close up on her face,
so that I can pretend

I’m Jimmy Stewart gently roused from sleep,

opening my eyes to discover the most beautiful woman
I’ve ever seen

leaning in to kiss me awake.