exhume the hello: it’s time to go
down to tribesco where your father
knows the word for willow follows
these slivers of improbable road
lashes lampposts hold the sights
& set them hourly daily wrongly
platitudes & workers singalongs
are ballast for a battered boat
exhume the hello: it’s time to go
down to tribesco where your mother
told you never to go you’d have a
better life elsewhere what? locked
inside the pantry of suburbia? like
a corpse dont bother me now with
talk of heading there she says hey
ho dont you go (down to tribesco …
