They’ve banished you to Middletown,
a study in modern American culture.
The Ball Jar instead of the Bell.
You’re a fickle peach,
a savage, who wants to be here now.
No mirrors. No lakes.
Forward progress as you
sing your lungs out,
wait tables for a dime,
wrap old men around your fingers.
You wear the laced up boots
for the brutes of your heart
that will grind your disbelievers
into the pavement
like a half smoked,
snuffed out, cigarette butt.
Ceres has made a terrible mistake.
You will not wipe away
your milk mustache
for any god, fascist, or lout.
Powerful, you charge
toward the past with a lance
as long as the negligence
of your childhood.
You joust through spring and autumn.
You kill in winter.
