almost empty

a drunken pollock leaves studio open.

and drives. condom here. glass shards there.

hampton models straddling a guardrail.

plastic flapping steel fences scatter

on sudden gusts like stringless kites.

broken telephone wires and crucifixes.

convenient store bags blow

parking lots like dizzy

jellyfish flapping sleazy wind.

just another switchback century

composing the unending symphony:

cue the mess we make of a world.