Originally posted August 28, 2013.
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;
wolf pelts, blessing of
balls of old oil
in the bellies of seals;
in rooms full of vintage guitars
and game balls,
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,
It will seem then
like a different country.