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Now that I live in the land of the mound
effigies I figure
it’s time to take the leavings
of my heart and make
a buffalo. Swollen
shuffling Goliath. Matted
russet buffalo pustule. Shag
swarm. A buffalo so
utterly
distended it could only
be pregnant with history.
We put on our hats and take out our knives
and carve the party into fist-sized cubes
of dead red history cake.
Cursive leather frosting that reads
don’t come around here
no more. I say
it over and over. I don’t
like strangers like
me. I’ve eaten way
too much party mound
and I think I’m going to be rich.
I get blind and spin with a dissevered animal
tail in the stickled clutch of my palm
until I’m just
rich as fuck and filled
with an unkind wind.
Still, I piss straight
into it and always under
a stranger’s stars.
Piss and whistle. Don’t come
around here no more. The stars
are so cold
my teeth could
up and shatter. I gather
white dust in my
wallet. I swirl
my teeth in the vacuum
of the sky’s unbuyable
until I’m smiling
the Milky Way. I look up
and see the footprint moon
thieving and tiptoeing
through my grin. I can only
stomp and whinny and
in the morning
I eat cigarette apples
and cough the sun black.
