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.