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By Phillipe Vicente
Intrepid slime of scars,
escargot and maggots paving
the grains and thrills beneath
the constipation of tougher times.
A few captured from rain and smoke,
dates that steel into beams, the gates
of the community into which I’ve been
given the job of being the lights when off.
Guarded them from my presence
by only stepping outside a half hour
before and after their done sunning.
Staring at myself seems to ease
the wounds breathing, reduces
the anger’s sweating down to a puddle
they can easily step over.
Occasionally I hear them gather
to talk about what it would take
to get me to blow my brains out.
Get their kids to parade across
my front lawn with toy guns with hope
I’ll get inspired by their playful butchery.
Today I think I’m going to ruin
their cars, absent skin scratching against
their polished shadows. Sure it could be said
that I’m no longer a man but merely
its antihero, a bad habit no longer former
but abscessing, but I gave up my country
for this pension, the only way any of those
feet first backyard divers are going to rid
me of it, is by wrestling me with more
than their porch lights.