Flo On

the day’s a stale word 
the kind that’s afraid of
an honest mouth
(a thing so 
strangely made) 
a conversation like 
a broken arrow, busted wind 
and a tree of fire, death at 
the roots of the all the palms, 
and a half-flung syllable 
that punches like an empty fist

i don’t know about you but
i’m tired of empty talk
the kind that slips
off your shoulders
like a saggy dress 
or a squirt of 
old perfume
jargon and
buzzwords and
attack words and 
the kind that make the day
kick over like a bad news story 
or a pundit with an ugly sweater 

every Sunday’s a lazy quatrain
the clouds are meaty pink and
the air’s spilled milk and 
all the tables are empty
and the porch sitters are
strumming bare guitars ‘cause