something for y'all

Ain’t nothin’ but rot out here, trailer rustin’ in the mud, sky like a beer can crushed flat by God’s own boot. I sit out on the busted porch smokin’ whatever burns, feelin’ the world drip down my skull like oil from an old engine. Ain’t no joy in the bones no more—just cold, molasses-slow dread, like I’m waitin’ for somethin’ to scream outta the cornfield and call me by name. I try writin’ poems, yeah, little lines about nothin’, about bugs crawlin’ under the skin of stars or how my mama’s ghost watches me sleep. The words come dead, all hollowed out. Used to dream of beauty—now I dream of teeth. Sometimes the trees whisper in voices that sound like my own but older, meaner, tired of tryin'. They tell me the world never wanted us poets, never wanted anything ‘cept to chew and spit. I saw a shadow last night that walked without feet, smelled like burnt plastic and honey, told me I was the last word in a sentence no one ever meant to say. That’s the kind of shit I write now. Ain’t no art left, just the echo of what beauty mighta been before the stars died screamin’. I don’t cry no more. I just watch the ceiling crack and wait for the hole to open wide and suck me through.