with her balding bedsheets, 
August’s bitch, strung up on the line
her feet are bleached roots
    azalea eyes,  blue from the acidic dirt of Panhandle drought

A whole town:     armed to the teeth, 
                             arming themselves against my teeth. 
She-cat of Bladenboro, 
                              I’m here for your dogs, 
                              your sheep,         your sons,         your blood.   
                  You know who I am, boys. 

your candle burns too brightly
never to find another flame to stoke it: 
your kindling is out there. 

first of all, let’s talk sweet tea. Yankees joke about the secret being sugar—& it is, partly—but the real secret’s in the baking soda. it takes the bitterness out of the tea & makes the sweet taste sweeter. just like you should be to your husband. neutralize all the bitterness & just be sweet as Southern tea. & don’t squeeze them teabags. you know what I mean, girl. 

people care
more about video games
on their cell phones
than cultivating empathy

and the old hatreds
have risen up from under their rocks
where they’ve been hiding

taking a new form
they ooze like stale bile
flowing out of sewers

i can feel your populism from here
in the cool confines of the passenger seat

your window is up too
we both got the a/c blasting, bro

because they sure make america hot these days
caliente or kalinatuh i’d say, much to your chagrin

everywhere i turn
the orange-faced bloviating billionaire
with bad hair and a small penis
tells me that he wants to make america great again
for its dying minority

in his d.c. office cum apartment
three miller lights into it
spit shinning his portrait of reagan for the third time
making the sign of the cross
a chunk of wisconsin cheese in his hand
after a hard day of obstructive legislative work