Written by Melissa Booey

Back home in the Tarzan junkyards

football stars are still swinging from car horns

proudly hunting out the next varsity rape while

crying over already spilled milk...

around the dumpster decorated corners

Friday-night hometown gang-bangs guarantee success.

I left you there cowboy, ever impatiently

with a gun full of gin rejection and a tin can between your teeth

all the while

you spat chewing tobacco on my retreat and I caught bullets of rum

right in the stomach because your boys

MY boys

no longer cared to man the whorehouse door…

Does it still swing open

back and

forth?

A beckoning saloon disguising apocalyptic old surrender, famous bad

habits and a one horse escape to and from this

backwards, backyard paradise…

they still send me letters about your efforts

twisting emblems barely suffered between well-lined paper palms

proclaiming: there is no sunset dreamland! no purple people eater!

driving bandwagons full of accidental opportunity

Hope packed up and avoided the sandstorm- you remember!

the one we were all warned about? but we kept camp up anyway

WHY DID WE KEEP UP CAMP

(was it just to watch it burn?

was it just to watch it go up in flames?

just to hope we’d learn that in the end

we are all the same

that in the end

we are all to

blame)