He wears a blue mask to decompress
the air shed argyle socks
breathe-right nose strips to feed on
the rattlesnake he shot with his .22.
This place is a blast furnace
transplanted palm trees
hides plugs like bottle nipples
under an Astros cap has tracer veins
down pasty legs wears mountain ranges
on his wrists. In the brickyard
we listen to the inability
to listen to the fountain’s pump.
He plays space invaders from
a wicker throne waits for guest services
for the mucous membrane to
rent every VHS in the bullpen.
Nathaniel Vincent Mohatt | Mudlark No. 42 (2011)
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