3rd
“Watering Hole” part 2
That sounds about right, how I felt you vindicated.
Which one is that? A fox.
I had written it down again, written down the line to put me in last place.
No more do I get to try. No more will I try.
Not like I caught it from you, womb cauldron.
Fun to cross that off the cross.
Thanks a lot, says womb cauldron, sarcastically.
Piping in hot sounds of love to the unadorned,
By a warm pool on a wide white plain of dust mostly,
Odd hills make way for a predator—the birds are in office overhead.
I palm the oily insides of my thighs,
God, how long have I had to pee?
The answer would be relief enough to let me die.
While I’m only an outlaw—this pain in my eyes is ripping,
Yes ripping—you may not injure my sensitive injured boy.
I’m only protecting my son, in a way,
Even if he’s no less a murderer than I.
What’s that they say about how fine you must be,
To be a man? I look down, it’s starting to stink in steam colors;
I’m not getting any better,
But I’m in the sun; what goddamn use is it crying?
Watch where you pass, hue shaped sparks.
Watch where the oil burn scars. You suck.
Watchfires light my oily thighs.
Why stop there, guys?
Don’t you want to gut my sinus cavities?
That stalactite of my nose is dribbling softwhiskey.
The loam—sand, silt, clay—on your sandals,
Calves, and where they ripped open your finger nails is a warm salve,
But excuse me; I’ve made it to the watering hole.
I’m gushing blood by this desert bottleneck, head of the lion line.
Coughs rattle my soon bleaching bones.
