Originally posted August 28, 2013.

Comb-overs, wars,
long nosed cars, long reach guns, 
filibusters, weaponized God, hangings,
unfortunate colognes, blood feasts,
casual seizing of women, of children,
of other men, shared ignorance
of lack of consent;

leveraged buyouts,
wolf pelts, blessing of
radioactive oceans,
balls of old oil
in the bellies of seals;

blank-eyed drooling
in rooms full of vintage guitars
and game balls,
blackout drunks,
hard-engine bikes:

all the exquisite arts of suicide and genocide.

I was born there, live there mostly,
certainly will die there,
will die of being there.

There are women there too.
Some of them are sick too
but mostly, I think, they are sick
of the sick men.
They have stories to tell
but if you want to hear those
don’t ask me to tell them.
My tongue’s more than a little sick.
You can smell it a little
or a lot.  I know I can smell it
every time I speak.
To hear those stories,
get away from me,
get into clean air,
go to the source,
listen.

It will seem then

like a different country.