The Ozarks are where defeated assassins, the unholy,
and monsters come to retire.
The proper soil and crooked moonlight grow back
the disemboweled, the decapitated,
while we collect arrears in child support for our demi-god children.
The procession of taillights lined deep down the logging trails.
Along the way, there was a gentleman arguing with his soul
over his suicide.
I, tongue of snakes.
Cut up, dipped in powdered sugar,
scattered to the ants in the deepest corner of Mt. Nebo
as an insult, bind my ghost to the mountain.
Typhoon collected the few precious scales left of me
from the undertow.
My southern accent-muscle burned up
from haunting your life/house.
Now, let daybreak be my head and the year, my whole body.
An online southern Christian university ordained my smoker’s
cough to be a dove.
My favorite exorcism:
The demon, steeped in corn bread philosophy,
does not have enough ass to carry off the jeans he advertises
as he kneels down to the priest and holy water.
Years ago, as a child, I climbed the levee and made a hole in the air.
That’s where I will rest, but the gate is not wide enough.
Like my burial site, I am party-size.