A marked man’s prowess lives beneath the next man's shoes. He’s a gunslinger with a turkey in his holster. That’s right. You ever been scared of your next meal?
His eyes were sewn shut for the entire flight.
Not a cloud or polyester uniform or bag of nuts to be seen.
The window frigid,
the chair rigid,
the air rumbled in his chest.
A victory dance played in his mind as the rain fell.
The fire in the hole went out years before.
Choice bits of refreshments all served cold: sinews and cold cuts and gelatinous stew.
Wait for the tins to defrost and behold a feast,
until then he lies frozen in his own sweat and tears.
Sever those limbs and dance a jig,
only it's hard to keep step without your feet intact.
Blank stares from every corner, every which way,
all branded with harshness and loss,
They know his number’s up.
Yet, not one stir.
Threaded eyelids cannot see.
The child within nuzzles close—its fear of abandonment still ripe.
It’s easier to cling to the dying than to keep step with the living.
Not a fortified sleuth but a mere man in distress.
Fragments of silver and piles of pills,
taken one by one.
The sinews get caught as they pass down his throat.
Careful to not choke on the ribs,
they’ll be the last to go down, following the heart.
A marked man’s prowess lives beneath the next man's shoes.
He's a gunslinger with a turkey in his holster.
Ever been scared of your next meal?
Damn straight, you ought to be.
A symposium of simple-minded kooks,
with prescriptions of ordinary silence.
It smells how it tastes,
hollow as expected,
Ripe with mealy resistance.
The lumberjacks of Manhattan,
put that in your job search.
They promised to slay you—yet you’re still here,
threadbare against a frozen window,
with another promise broken.
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