Dirty Sanchez
under a frowning moon
over the sewer
Dirty Sanchez plays a rusty trombone
for anyone with something to hide
a short-order cook by trade
with long teeth
and no brains
Dirty Sanchez pretends to be
what he already is
and every waitress hates him
Dirty Sanchez
the god of goulash
spins gold out of grease
and slings hash in plain view
easily distracted,
he gives a bus boy the once-over
as tomorrow's special
crawls away
Stringfellow Road
Here on Stringfellow Road
the signs point that way
and one tiny nerve
becomes the universe
each step kills a shadow
weaving in and out of frame
dodging deals and crosshairs
Where on Stringfellow Road
can impaled dowagers thrash about
as a warning to trespassers?
shoe peddlers capture
moments of doubt
and hang forever
like ghosts on a hook
There on Stringfellow Road
the signs point this way
and one tiny nerve
becomes the universe
