by Keith Higginbotham
Pimped in ride, in binges, beaten
bald on half-page philosophy,
big hitters deflowered the vetted
afternoon, shot up drainpipes
on a jarred bed, one corner in
pencil, heat still on and hissing.
There was forge on TV: sentences too
picked up a musty smell. There
were no more extremists or subtitles.
In these cases one moves toward décor
of wit and verve, novel college romance,
ghostwritten, an upside-down
crush of brand. Yet take note:
notwithstanding the spot of years
and swings, plastic sleeves
of chants and air, the way practice
makes shoulders unreliable, the pixels
mold and soon become forlorn.