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By Justin Wade Thompson

we dug out baloney
from the black heroin carpet stains
& baked
in a fry pan, cool mayonnaise
with clam hands & tobacco seeds

watching the tiny tits of this Texas tattooed woman
screaming claims to gunshot victims
stiff in their locket boxes

still resonating somewhere
in the brain

clinging to something
in the night, between the knees, between the beaten shoe laces, cow tongues,
type writers & waxed machines

I threw a pinch of salt behind my back
pressed for luck
& tossed what was left into my medicine bag.

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