Two words, unique in thirty turns on Earth
Round-housed me like a kick ten years delayed.
I died; I rose; I contemplated birth.
She ordered me to dance, and I obeyed.
She was my first reciprocal commission,
a poem for a poem, word for word,
a spirit for a form, the definition
of quid pro quo, with interest deferred,
but her words tipped the balance, and I reeled.
How could her offer shine but weigh like lead?
Her showroom was deceptively well heeled.
She was authentic, yet I cringed with dread.
What is the price of one, young, naive song?
The singer can’t stay innocent for long.

To the Cat God:

There’s one last sour drag left on this rollie,
and, though you wouldn’t hit it, it’s for you.
Tumescent lungs, I offer to you wholly,
but who could save the Devil from his due?
There’s one good finger, left out to decant.
It’s yours to save or sip or shoot it down,
an off’ring to the dead, a pitcher plant,
an ointment jar in which I’ll lastly drown.
I’d leave to you the remnant; claim your right.
My squinting eyes cannot discern the source,
but I can hear the roar, consumed by light.
I tremble and anticipate the force.
I’ll write a hundred coffin nails to drive.
Each one I burn reminds me we’re alive.

From a dead buck