over these damn catfish for cars

off Highway Who Gives a Fuck Sixty.

I’m not okay, not hardly, brown cow—

Where the water? Why the muck-sky?

Who’s polluting my last light here?

It’s not funny—my drowning.

It’s honestly kind of freaking me out.

Night like Chevron flooding the Ford

& the stars are all

traitors, drowning themselves.

Forget them. Here come my wrists

up a-daffodil-y-ing,

up-down my good side. It’s blood

money, honey—Your buck knife

can’t cut me loose from this sunk

car stereo in my mouth, my goodnight

Dixie cup to the brim with mud.

All I ever wanted was this mouth, this skin

to wear when it’s not enough

to bet on beauty—alone, absurd

at the cusp—

algae & anyway

deplorable. Gurgle

the mud, son. Pretty soon

is all you can ask for.

How the coffee?

How slow The American Ending?

Is it just me or am I myself

the fish flopping, Won’t somebody save me

from my shit?