August 30 by The Running Son
ψ 40 day rap ψ
My skin flakes and blows away,
and has now for forty days.
The sun blazes and bakes,
driving me insane
—straight desert crazy.
I eat dust and grit, both disgusted
and amazed with the ways
others get away
as a side dish to their meat and gravy.
Latter-days ladies try to save me,
make me baskets to carry
tonics and loams,
soothing my wounds like a baby,
to refuel and juice up.
A fantastic plan for the next time
and at last get my ass kicked,
tossed in a ditch by desert-rat kids
with blasted looks,
fishing for handouts and harassing me.
I’m dishing soot and sand
–-just my rabbit’s foot from
They aint buyin’ it—aint my fans.
In fact one just landed
a rocket-quick right hook,
hard as he could, grinned and shot
me a devil-look, then they
body-checked me like a peckerwood.
Mad-dogging me and
kicking sand, and testifying against me
indigo ghost children from my pre-resurrection,
then left me guessing
at all the lazy ways I have
blamed the ladies,
foamed with rabies,
loamed my own skin, soap-boxed
and pontificated lessons,
and made confessions in a pool of blood and sand, in Hades.
by Jim Aldrich (:
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