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.