–for Nick Traenkner

There is al­co­hol in me tonight, al­co­hol
and yes I have breathed in smoke and
breathed it back out out to you sur­rounded
by words unc­tu­ous, bom­bas­tic, evan­gel­i­cal.

Dress me in horse hair, the hair what was once
a horse and a belt of leather from what was once
a cow so cos­tumed words take on le­git­i­macy

or in­vest me in silks as the new pope of con­tin­ual
om­nipo­tent ex­cess. The dirt of life is death
death death! The dirt of life is the fruit of death.
The dirt of life is a sci­en­tific ex­per­i­ment where

you tread on wheels while I spume and wrack at
you, your bare feet hatched with the turn­ing
tide. Proud in per­sis­tence. I will talk un­til

you lis­ten.

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