04-02-2019
Abattoir is just a fancy word for slaughterhouse
My face is red with acne, as we head to the Pacific
Ohio. Fucking Ohio! The abattoir of my dreams!
I’m driving as far away from you as possible, Fucker.
Some DJ from LA is texting me. He sounds nice on the phone.
He owns the desert cabin we stayed in, wants to meet.
I don’t want to know any different, so I won’t.
I leave a poem on the table. He left me a voicemail.
I don’t think anybody ever wrote him a poem before.
Musings From California Ranch Country (Part 2)
