GET OFF YOUR HIGH HORSE AND FIGHT ME LIKE ANDROGYNE
I zing baloney on the high moon, lay
down the law: this is a slingshot twilight
showdown that can’t be beat. I got the west
in my spine, and a mirror in your yes1 .
Nothing was ever so spurious.
You let your thumb flick across a slick lip
and hold it up – wind2 catcher – as if intimidation
were talisman or dust. We are waiting
for the ice cream truck to toll. We are waiting
for emperors to ensconce
their gas stations. This soapbox too high
to give me high ground. When you ask for a bullet
they bring you castanets. Ginger extract
for whisky: the apocalypse you want
is always this horizon. I fretted
about all the facets that could blind
me. It was not the sun –
but the dusk
that done me in.