Preacher

Hey dealer,
give me some of that sweet and
ancient easy fix, I want to eat the star
of David tonight, to trickle
down from an opalescent moon and
wreak havoc in the wine glass
of a president moments before her
staged- assassination.

Plant me in the rose bushes of the Kennedys.
Let me open to the bulbous eventide of her eyes,
and know the smell of white, cool patronage.

Let the house burn down with the kids trapped inside.
It was only a bad novel, anyway.

Some nights, being a writer?
It’s too much like stalking prey in a cheap,
fluorescent-lit grocery store jungle-scape.

There are others when I just want to devour your face,
like a Hamlet worm or a wormhole from the dark side.

There is you, and I am me. We tug form page to air, eternally.

May I always end the victor.
May I always walk away free.

Hey dealer, give me another pop.

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