Memories of my childhood char with
Barry the Blades and Private Downeys.
Your you can’t handle the truth cringed
with echoes of car keys and my father’s
invitation to the Klan. Code reds and red pills
rabbited through lawyers, legislation, and
Louisiana beer cans striking the ten year old
flesh of your nuisance. Nothing squelched like
military leather as Southern twangs curved and
punchbuggies dissatisfied. I bleet of homemade
meringue, riddles, and your retribution, filing
riffles and beetles behind bedskirts. Your
addiction baits and flounces harmonies and
continuity as wisps of favors wrench courtesy
and cigars. That’s our code, sir.
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