10
dusk, not in california
randy says, 'shit.'
cat on the driveway nextdoor.
bored boy pushes himself on a skateboard
before a black pickup backs in.
i want to cry; the tools are greasy
and the air is heavy like black holes.
the garage inhales-- 'emission standards
are,' he clanks, 'a little different
over there.'
hey im rod naquin. i write, rock, drum, smoke, theorize and swim in paint. sing like sinatra and am sure to turn things upsidedown. artist from near new orleans that likes silence, likes noise
