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Pris Campbell |
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Guarding The Edge Outside my bedroom window, dealers meet their daily quota pumping the walking dead. Hookers bargain for memories in the back of run-down Chevrolets. A man screams Armageddon Nobody cares what he says. The Buddhist sits on my doorstep. Mud stains coat his feet. He says we're all connected; muggers hiding in alleys, old ladies prone on the street. I laugh at the distant rumblings, flip on my wide screen TV, ignore cracks already cobwebbing my carefully guarded space. Bedding the Butterfly I watch you watch her wriggle center stage, bait for the guy with orange hair and bad voice netting the throbbing crowd. The guitar worships her, kisses her sweet ass, pubescent hips gyrating in the doo-whap thick of the night. I know you will grope me later, imagining her instead, her halter top tossed free and floating- your red sequined butterfly of receding youth, flutterdying on our cold hardwood floor. |