chapter 3
poem
HUFFINGTON
09.23.12
Horseshoe or dingbat, Sir
oh just the one
he thought, even if a hoarsepshaw brief Cyrillic Ж was altogether
confidential then. Sadistic counsel goofy as it was to hit
a mark an iron-shod method like an actor on the methadone
for bad habits, pitching his good luck
to brain the brain-damaged boy, altogether his intention
Master Craft, I swear
swore it when he outran a goddamn dawn
a good man reigning through obsessive thought that inning out to bean
him break his neck
Focus on the other’s head
a dingbat or lucky shot
pitching high and inside
fucking up the outdoors, even fireworks on the Fourth can’t you
do an elementary task?
However,
He Who Finds a Horseshoe fires a synapse begs a question
but in time bags his quarry by the marsh
even brags about it, flees as far as Moony Lake running
in the tallest grass and crouching down they say
it’s possible to drown in mud and sand and shoreline
stagnant pools in short order, Sir.