Sailboats skim the bruised
basins of my body, sickly
tender as silken stardom,
necessary as the tabloid travesties of modern
Americana which unfurl at our feet
while my pale skin still clings
like a wasp's nest to newfound
grass-stain scent. You've seen
logic bent backwards and sent
away on converted battlefield grounds.
The sporadic tempo of hooves
resonate through late morning:
a subtle vibration, native,
navigates through sloping
strata below as if unseen
racetrack cut through our well-
dressed flesh. The autumn wind
toys with ornate hats, short hemlines -
and Trickster returns to the landscape
with a bang, not a whimper;
with a slammed shot of dollar
whisky on crowded plastic table,
barely stable in southern heels.
We jerry-rig our showboat
motions with hands bound
behind our string-led spines. Alas,
you may find yourself anew,
twined in some vacant truth,
mired in the lawschool blues.
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