Honky

feels undermined by every morning he sleeps through.

Honky is straightening things out in Honduras.

Honky intercepts.

When Honky kicks it on K Street, cocks look up for miles around

and lengthen their lunch meetings.

Honky see, Honky do you hear what I hear.

The stem of time shoots through Honky’s shoe and into the soil,

watered by the goatsmilk of regret.

Honky’s gift theory: Gimme that.

When Honky finds a business partner to dick him over

near his allegory’s end, he empties his meds into the commode.

Jeebus grant us ice hockey centerfolds and iron pyrite winking from the wall

of an abandoned mine in which Honky is slowly but exquisitely canarying.

When Honky drops a hankie, please to pick it up.

Honky made it past the menacing hurdle of his poor spelling.

The gravity of Honky’s project makes a difference everywhere he rubs it.

A backhoe ran over Honky, uneasy to undo.

Honky must occupy himself with looking at this fucking honky.

Honky leaves on your abdomen a hickey the shape of Sicily

and plays several other instruments with parasitic enthusiasm.

Last year Honky trended toward the dark meat, eating the equivalent

of 87 five-legged chickens, but left a dozen three-egg omelets undisturbed.

If a sign says YIELD, trust Honky to gun it.

Huffy Honky, you can’t keep repackaging a premise.

The Honky is painted on both sides.

As often as cosmology and Honky intersect, we have not yet determined

how to loosen the red shrinkwrap around our sibling sphere.

If spectacle breaks out, Honky is there, siren screaming, a volunteer fireman on fire.