Right now, I shouldn’t be
the cigarette dangling
from the mouth of the man
you will ride
like a Derby horse
to roses. His name:
Eric. Your bloodline:
Pantaleo.
Fuck
persona, calculated
throat clutch, note control. How
can I mimic & sing
through scream?
For you, this is fantasy: the pony
you’ve always wanted, a story
to share in the squad room
when the day is done & men
of power fall into territorial pissing.
Yes, he is bigger. Are you
frightened? Yes,
he is a man. Does the mass
make him less?
Is the story spinning
your gears, do you dream
of besting the thin blue
w/the one that didn’t get away?
This is sport to you,
the choke, grip
& spin. No applause,
but you hold on,
count seconds
like cowboys do.
Cigarettes was it?
I think I know the way
this works, the hope
& crash.
Just
bear witness, say
the words: A man w/a wife
& kids is dead
over loosies, & suddenly
the centuries—
17th & 21st—have burns
to share.
from dying in the scarecrow’s armsFind it in the library
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