Ignorant as a pork chop,
he sings openly
of a rash on his back leg,
of crumbling infrastructure
hidden in
the catacombs
of the San Fernando Valley
or the hills
of Western Kentucky.
He notices things, though,
like bricks
thrown in windows,
licensed bondsmen
scheduling meetings
in orange groves,
belittling their
clientele by
bombarding them
with tiny gemstones
of plastic reality,
whistling past
dormant windows
in the dark
of midday.
