Monday, December 12, 2011

Spinal Structures

Not a dirty path, no boots, no high-noon beaks tearing at what was a man before the crack of gunpowder echoed a call for supper. Not the fur a desert leaves on the face of someone turned animal in the sun. Not some goddamned outlaw's land where what you want waits in the shadow of a cactus, to see if you're cold fucking bastard enough to walk right through its arms. Not the amount of cuts on a man's face: a show of wealth. Not the place a man leaves in the base of his neck when he comes here, a civilized territory. Not the city of the damned and the dead that looks you in the eye when you tap his shoulder and his neck turns.