Anywhere in a halter top.
Between the hard place and the rock: brothels
chemo cults.
Down the zip line in Costa Rica where my cousin’s leg got infected by a thorn, then amputated.
Exile, or even too
far from me.
Gun point. Pointing your gun.
Hot springs on a volcano with the heavy-lidded drummer from the band.
Intravascular volume depletion inevitable envy.
Jersey.
Ketoacidosis. Kevin’s bathroom in
L.A.
Morphine, mediocre aspirations, miscalculations of your equanimity
near the edge of the bridge, the well, the maw.
Obsequiousness or a
professional political career.
Quadriplegia, the tipsy quarterback’s filthy car.
Reverence for complacency, for bigots.
Selling what is meant to be shared.
Taking what has not been offered. Walking
under ladders, spilling salt in the wounds. Las
Vegas 6 AM sun coming through your motel
window. Dumpsters scorpions somebody still in the pool
exploding heart-sized hornet nests. But you will leave the party before all that
your fine hair lifted high by
zephyrs by chance blowing counterclockwise.
