The More You Know

like any breaks on the jesus wagon
is not to remember bust lines of praise singers
with rucksacks of gen-x-ers who employ
100 monkeys who write “it’s not you, it’s me”
to be cut like a rival gown out of glam curtains
under kliegs that bring to light this city’s challenger
of unpopular romance culminated in the nineties
that harken to bone dust in my pill bottle
a shade of manic merlot on a morning commute
who can remember to spring forward?
in my defense it was the chinese grocers
who feign interest in major league sports
and stand crooked as an englishman’s teeth
against the loneliest parts of the day