squirmtwisting as They bring
the cage up to the canyon's
lip seasoned with moisture from the morning
dew and the creak of the
Wheels grinding in the old desert dirt wends
its weary way from dust to ear. When
two days ago you had a cup of
Joseph, Mary and Jesus Christ, My God
you prayed over the coffee and here I was
thinking maybe you would be someone whose
arms We're open, the tinkle of the cheery bell,
please come in and there's a stack
of shortbreads a mile high
and the daily special is Croque Madame —
or is it Monsieur? Well? which cruxed the point
maybe too finely
when the coffee hit and Fuck me,
Fuck me, was this season's benediction. The cage anyway
is a rusted battered thing and it's
a messy pile of Bones of a riddenout town whose land
has been hewn from the blood
flowing like a river in its longdry
Bed — shorn in twain, shoved
apart and shacked out. Because someone, or
was it you, from the nose of the plane
tugged the controls and tightened the reticule
and dropped the Exam into my hands
where all the ways I had been straight
were enumerated on a scrap of paper
like the little miss
fortune from a cookie
with how it's pronounced on the back. Whence
I lurch to my twisted ankles hobblestumbling
a back way out front (And if you
have ever been to this place you remember it,
and there were always redwinged
blackbirds there not that you
Gave a fuck at any whatsoever point (But I
gave a fuck if you gave a fuck (Whether
this is justice I still cannot say
and you couldn't neither.) despite wishing
I could stop.) and they always sang their
conkaree for me and god alone
out there on the brink of
United States Route 160.) and trip into it
where the manacles with
their first three letters etched wide and deep on
each wrist lock and chafe and I am
Möbius
page revision: 5, last edited: 07 Jun 2025 14:01