HOWARD CAMNER

 

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