The Angry Bookseller

I’ll sleep on the floor of a drained ocean
in the shadow of a once jagged
coastline.

And I’ll dream of you sometime
between dark and night

The cicadas are out again. In the trees screaming like some out of control machine.

All the trucks resting here, sighing diesel into the night. The waning moon dragging itself into the sticky Kentucky sky.

I’m awake but tired. And hoping to make Atlanta before the sun.

The first chiseled their messages into stone.
The next carved their messages into wood.
The afterthats printed their messages onto paper.

And the forgottens blow their messages into the cloud.

There in Kansas City
the Union Pacific breaks apart its trains.

And puts them back together again.

All night those steel trucks
rubbing against these metal rails.

Screaming like the dead crying for hell.

She puts on her new shoes. She checks her lipstick in the mirror. She meets a friend at the corner for a drink.

And then

Gunned down in the street. And covered with a flower patterned sheet.

Her new pink shoes bright against the grey Paris cobblestone.