Your Bag

If you died and instantly disappeared
like Jedi do
would my boot search the sleeves which have not yet collapsed without the skin cylinders of your arms to hold them out? It would!
I would go through your bag
I would find gum wrappers and bobby pins
I would find a stash of white cocaine in a little bag, or mashed up perccets all in a film canister
I would find a schedule for the Blatino film festival. (you have circled all the gay films and written "do not invite Tyler to.")
I would find a bad set of knives you bought at a flea market and the Criterion Collection DVD of a Wes Anderson film; I don't remember which one; it never worked
And the clam chowder bread-bowl from San Francisco
And whatever smell couldn't escape the other vinyl side when it moved quickly from where you were.

the Despot

If the dog were a determined despot,
nope, Christ knows it's not as simple as a despot.
You are one complex fucker God,
remembering Franco fondly.
Stalin so unlike Marx or Whitman? caring for his countrymen as much as a rock—which is to say, a lot.

If despotic race could raise alpaca and all have and wear fine wool garments
if this silly bitch news magazine journalist
if the eyes peered from behind a metal thing, or something
and dipped behind it and the forehead came next.

Bad Economy

"Wait, so you're saying this job has required complicatedly networked computers, a seismometer, and a microwave beam satellite dish strapped to the back of a cellphone. I can't have done it. I don't have the money."

But its equally clear that he could have had a backer, or a nest egg in the Grand Caymans fattening in the tides of galactic commerce. This bit of rage dump, transmissive as a quick punch to the curve of the neck.