quikrete set in purgatory, mo
nothing in missouri is real.
america's make-believe island.
its shape a tab of bad acid.
we boogy poorly on cahokia bones.
nada adroit about it. w'all klutz &
slobber. water weren't quite opposite
we breathe. red neck b a rash mentality.
a language of its own? i ain't au courant!
the n word went inward, close but no cig
arette unfiltered. show me your show me
state. undressin grass stains & daisy chains: a
colour of our royalty. no cash cows no gold
rush sadly. no crying over spilt rivers, missi. no
muumuu murmur neither. thou art tho the peach pit
of the country, surrounded by eight nectary stars. if we
can't talk our way out, eat it out it. pull hair here into pony
tail & thus become the pony. there a farm boy in my melk
i muss finish, denim agog. Death be the only wild thang
we have commonly. its lickety-split. heck to the fucking
Henry Goldkamp lives in New Orleans. Recent work appears in Nat. Brut, DIAGRAM, South Carolina Review, Notre Dame Review, Indiana Review, Barrow Street and CutBank among others. He is the recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize and serves as a poetry reader for The Adroit Journal. His public art projects have been covered by Time and NPR. Saint Louis is his patron city.