Shovel sandy grit
with the sift of guilt masquerading as love
Admitting the
actions were made for nostalgia
For the times a
man was worthy of a glance in a mirror
Without flinching
like a startled boxer
Past the fulcrum
of age where the reaction time in muscle tissue
Declines and
impregnable becomes battered
Pummeled to the
realization
That the only way
to survive is to shut love
The way America
does with immigrants
We are that which
we deport
Thirsting re-entry
for the salvation of honest work
To be needed
beyond oceans, deserts, or mountains
The arduous
passageways relinquish like street corner junkies
Knowing blood
vessels fill up with the opiates of lottery endorphins
Today might be
that day!
These numbers
might be the combination!
Locked in glances
at store front windows glaring semi-transparent reflections
Of the seller and
the buyer fornicating commerce of must and want
Doused in pressure
to confess that under lust was another job
Compulsion to join
the cult of happy
Others as prerequisite
bunk mates and coffee spoon measurers
A scatter plot of
midnights made purpose
Like one ant hill
conquering the next, as if the thoraxes were not iterations
Of a common
extinction waiting beyond the waves
We wait for a
lolly-pop to be placed into the mound by a sky-giant
We worship
pheromone queens for the sake of the brood
Fawning over larva
until chemical adolescence sends the boys to war
In crag and jungle
the warriors aim high on purpose
Dirt is carried
like pyramids for pharaohs honoring the dead executives
Until love is cast
into a gilded tomb sequestered from a pauper’s grip
So that what is
fundamental becomes luxurious delicacy
Swathed in
currencies dispensed by treasury departments and Walton cartels
Deported under an
interstate when costumes removed to cast with the other trash
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