You Don’t Wanna See These Guys Without Their
masks on. Pull the gloves off, finger by finger, leather slipslides the sound
of wolves against the walls. If you have seven cents, they’ll sell you to the
sheep and we all know what happens then. It’s a lie they tell that wool is
sheared from the outside in. The birth of serpents slithers in the telling,
becomes a soft slip of fingertip along the inside of a thigh. The tires always
turn the way you looked last. It gives us all away in the morning, unless the
garbage man comes to lift the fog of yesterday’s throwaways. Kiss me with
your mouth open, hike up your heels, hit the long road with the last of your
leftover curves. Down below, a farmhouse hides the truth of long wars. It’s
invisible to first look, second strike. Now you see me, tucked into this wall
of look away. No one expects the guns to go off, even when they spy that black barrel. You don’t see anything. Go home. Close your eyes. That wind
at the back of your neck isn’t me.
Image taken in the redwoods.
Words written in a motel not overlooking the ocean.
Ears On The Mountain Goats, “Up the Wolves”
Time Taken fivish minutes.
Brain On where we’ll go tomorrow