shepard fairey








gustav dore

our boys

death and burial


Monday, March 5, 2012

I Rode With Mosby

before it was fashionable,

stealing and burning; raising

General Hell from the stupor

he falls into if we let him. I left

a woman in Birmingham and

three dogs in Mobile; we’ll see

what shakes out in Memphis.

At Graceland, I hear, there’s

a butler answers the door

in his sweet time, in a dialect

native to Macedonia. It causes

a row among the boys, who

are hopeless with languages and

just want to go home, but won’t

without severance or a health plan

that includes dialysis. I’m

not even going to tell you that

the pool is kidney-shaped.

I can tell you this much:

in the swamp before a raid,

you couldn’t settle your mount;

they’d be twitching and snorting,

blowing the pitch of our high

out their muzzles in twin plumes

of steam, each a whistle marking

midnight, and every man horsed,

irreplaceable, and all too excitable.

one day at a time, we’d go;

time to roll out and get some,

then, before dawn

we'd get more.

No comments: