Fake Book

Rumors of notes
divided up—a settlement
made behind closed trap

doors. Illegal bindings
can lead to the tightest bonds
and rhythm section. Whatever

you call it—maybe true
love—spills forth
where the mapping leaves off.

Below Grade Cafe

Incessant talkers deliver
monologues to dead loved ones
before burial, a self-proclaimed born
teacher gossips

to a silent companion. I’m the eavesdropper—
noisy interloper
who won’t say a word.

To reinstall a river
from the north
without proper execution
could dry up

hearts and drown
last ditch efforts
to believe
in the truth

about these falls.
To rent a story you can’t
call your own
is no less

an act of gossip
than the squatter’s jaw
motion on hot,
moonless nights.

Tone deaf, color
blind to the hues
of a man’s gestures. Bored,

shy, turned
on, off—who can
tell? Gossip dug out

of a dumpster, laid
in the mid-summer grass
to dry out, to cure well

enough for a taste. I don’t eat

meat. That’s no excuse.
I’m human. I share
secrets—only my own.