I'll just read you a couple more.
I usually go into some explanation of electrical work,
but $3,000 of my essential hand tools
were stolen a while ago, so I was like, fuck it, and retired.
[LAUGHS]
So no hugs, and no, I won't help you out with your wiring.
[LAUGHTER]
Actually, maybe after a few times meeting, I might hug you.
Maybe an abbreviated fist bump.
All right.
I'm going to read-- yeah, two more.
This is called "Arc Flash."
Another form.
This is a failed sestina.
"The stars went off and on as if wired by to-hell-with-it
electricians, tired of lighting scrap-patched houses connected
by threads of pre-dawn smoke to invisible weavings in the sky.
Dim questions and silent answers.
Kettle got and wanting, grays between weeds across the valley
interrogated the dirt of Washing Creek.
'How long since you've been clay after rain?'
Started awake at midnight and under influence,
I sought my car to kill the soft snores beside me,
hauled ass out of urban desert decay
to sandstone cliffs five hours away,
where centuries of wind and more recent roadway gusts
have made a half-pipe of its base,
so not enough to topple the edge of the mesas level.
Hours from Phoenix, oasis greedy and artificial,
I needed Crystal, my dad's home and ceremony, less familiar
mountain tobacco, not to guide my spirit used to mornings
being lit, but to remind my tongue of blood,
cold coffee made by other men's women
who dispel me with smokes from cheap packs set
within reach on their knees.
Maybe they wish aside for my soon departure
that I shared their danger, bastards who make home confined
and needs hush.
I left and arrived once before the rainy season,
though cuts along the cliff face over crystal
shimmered with mica, like stars burnt
out taking eons to reveal their absence
in myth-heavy constellations.
The Sun risen isn't for me.
Cattle being herded or darkness in the room,
I left to wake alone.
Here, a few cars idle without drivers,
warm up before the workday while smoke from houses
vanishes and releases the night sky."