Quit kissing the gun, Kid...kid (even the young Pip in Great Expectations is menaced by cows who seem to talk, from the beginning to the begging) I'm getting wasted on cherokee (praise) shake the rest out of me it wasn't anger or sanguine, it was early love crimson sometimes ruby, chubby Rubaiyat has me let go my ladle, my cup of sacrificial spirits, but the fluid lifts before it collapses as the word colfax, untilting-as the kissing place on the x that looks in every direction then chooses blindness (none), huddles in the shine fat sun of interstate 80, route 174 kind, of common Californian forlorn and whimsical and finally, and when-I-look-up-again, excessive presence leaves no traces, the static starts just as the disc jockey is about to tell me the title I never wanted to know which outfit he wore to court, which one he wore to war, which one he wore to pieces, but I found out
