By Max Cohen
I have this dream where younger
brothers of former friends
are shocked to death by frayed cables
in busted guitar amps
that blast out anthems for the
bright new class of white nationalist
american
the closeted monsters and
rapist adjacents they run with
bludgeoned by borrowed roller blades
a clatter of hockey pucks and
loose teeth on long driveway concrete
I’ll confess I still feel for them
they didn’t ask for the fathers they had
or backyard ponds dried up or
most for much in fact and
seeing the wet fear in their
brown cow eyes bulging
frying from the inside
I know it’s no new feeling but the drop of
a chinstrap mask dangling over
touted tiki torches and
all the other smaller awful ways they
act loudly day to day
when I reach for the socket
to stop the screeching
the blades are tied tight to my arm
matted helmet hair caught between the laces
bloodied plastic wheels still spinning
there’s the sound of skipping
stones and I always wake up mad
“I am far from where we live, and I have not learned how to forgive” – John Darnielle (“Blues In Dallas”)
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