a dark pistol against her chest and gave up
in the middle of the day at the lakefront—
the hot cutting from tit to ass cheek,
missing all of the organs except her
mind which to this day she coats
in cocaine and sugar daddies.
Or Jean Paul who would tell me
what blow jobs were like when we
were kids, and he'd take advantage
of a smile and feathered hair to laugh
when laughing was inappropriate. His
stories of making it with the girl
who sat in front of us in class
became a form of history when
they found him hung outside
his girlfriend's trailer.
When I hear television news smile
about the tragedies of being alive—
again and again I wonder what
you are doing. The last time
we talked we fucked against
the wall in complete agreement
that whatever it was, was over.
The idea of a heaven everyone
seems to go out of their way
to avoid. The art of darkness.
What to say about the bad things?
And the ones contemplated while
I pretend to not be another asshole
in middle America? I once fell for
a Filipina hooker with blue contacts.
What is wrong with listening instead
of talking into the deaf wind?
Kenneth Clark has lived in most of the southeastern United States. He writes poetry and micro-fiction. His poetry has appeared in Night Train, Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), and Greatest Uncommon Denominator. 
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