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Alamo Theory

Night falling once like a horse

through a bridge. Page God

refusing to be survived. Page God

hollering over one dirty haystack

at whoever’s hiding behind the next

dirty haystack, and no one’s getting

off this tractor alive, no one without

a pod of vanilla, stuck like a witch’s

finger in the throat. Often who goes

there isn’t the bees. Isn’t the cherry trees.

No one’s darker than me. No one’s

big enough for pogroms. No one’s

grammar gets a pass. Can’t you

hear the popping of the karen-gun?

Why the Hittites, why the Etruscans,

sore and lost between vast greatness?

See the mountains, their trauma halos

of power line? Okay now show me

your anagram. No I don’t even care.

We bury a prom dress in the sand

of every coast; sew a new prom dress

from the flag of every coast. Jesus

sat down, calmly, fashioned himself

a whip of leathern cord. Page God

had never recorded premeditation

at such levels. We never really learned

the correct usage of the voice box,

either, but when we took ourselves

by the neck, it was ancient, our language,

brave the living mammal pinned

to its duration, the problem with the orgy

always witness, witness, witness.

Your breath comes out in a pretty

cloud of blue, which is a different color

than most people use. What a brand-

new giveaway. Students of the game

have noticed that often, before I shoot,

I take the time to mention vegetation

fretting somewhere across a fact-lit

red hill. It’s getting late and I’m the only

American on the dance floor. Still.