301 Moved Permanently

301 Moved Permanently


nginx

Suicide Farmers Of The Gulf

No stranger to flamenco, the Padre abides
with his flamingo-head cane handle.
The incense exhaust of juniper and sun-fucked
hammocks beds down in the crowd.
We’ve all bought a lot of lotto tickets. Someone
likened my orange tree to a tornado-tweaked abacus.
Nobody knows where the Mayor gets all those trashbags
of ash. But you, you had the butcherpaper skin of fishermen
who’ve only ever gardened, your face a loop of home movies
we make of ourselves as if we were someone else.
I know you owned one dark suit and nothing else.
I heard you only ever felt one way about yourself.
The Padre bends in to your satin-padded casket
to turn your bed down like a radio. As the cortège
picks up, the motes use the sunbeams as trampolines
but fall prey to the cocked cobras of smoke
off the Pall Malls in your pallbearers’ mouths.
And coral vines lap paint off the church,
but just can’t quench the jinx.

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