Smoking Guns (& other such code words: unprecedented/narrative, etc)


Simeon, whose sister is Temple, who kissed the pit,
where my arm meets a body,
his ring a glass-blued tiger’s eye,
flat and held in silver square.

I sit here, in the dune-grass,
a deer’s bed, drink,
libations from a pale-blue, sky-blue,
can—the same as,

the color of the ceramic LOVE
mug I made at summer camp,
matching my childhood room,
of the vomit I spat, from the mouth of,

a splintering head. The tim-tam membrane,
a drumming without tribal-vision,
no bringer, but Indian-giver pounding on,
my tin-roofed shack, the blood and yolk,

of ears cracked,
a feeling of relief, Now, now,
I can sleep. I come where no man can,
a whisper of prayer burning, rising, fluttering,

ash digested into winding-winds of cochlea,
a conch, I am nothing special,
only in my ability to remain untouched,
in his hot rendering of volcanic stone, all of their,

pressed and burned tallow,
mountain-men who won’t commit to stay the winters,
Find me David! Find me Simion! Find me Chris-crossed,
Christ! Do none of you wonder my whereabouts,

on these blind, hot days? I spin,
unable to locate a reason,
for the gravity that finds me.
The blue-can-lands, me in butterflies,

over the reach, I find my beach is riddled,
with riddles of unknown peoples,
screaming and scrambling very far away from me,
yet everywhere I look! I must reach the water,

cool my weary, hot and swollen, bee stung feet.
Those locking-up for C-19, later will be held too,
complicit in the great killing off,
compliant little soldiers, no shame yet,

the Worlds,
guffaw at YOU! Who say, politically correct is
Right arm bent in Love? Where then,
is the sign of the nail?

Photo Credit: Unsplash/Pratik Patel