Mardou Fox sitting naked on a back-alley fence in the Frisco rain by Sissy Buckles

Naturally envious of
those intrepid
self-assured folk
who always seem
so certain
‘them that’s got
shall have,
them that’s not shall
lose’; sublimely
preferable to
perpetually adrift
shackled with
historical shambles of
modern ambiguity,
to be a Twitter brand
or not to be
is that the burning
new question
and the very real
that it’s entirely
too late
to make the world
a better place –
what do, where go?
Perhaps cultivate
a soft spot for
Jean-Paul Sartre’s
The Roads to Freedom
trilogy, be proud
to raise that Olympic
flame aloft
or consider F. Scott’s
adored flappers, were
they really all
beautiful little fools
and pretty please say
fuck yeah
to midcentury Beckettean
absurdist nobodies
and I’ll never deny
my desolate
messed up wandering
downbeat heroes.
Should I then emulate
Anouilh’s ceaselessly stubborn
outsider Antigone
digging in her heels
sticking it to
The Man
preferring death to
the play premiered
in 1944 Paris under
Nazi censorship, but now
tell me plain
are you willing
to know
a woman who writes
odes to forlorn
seedy pool hustlers
and venerable bowling shoes
stinking of victory,
at least one of us
has a reputation
to protect.
And if it’s notorious
to do nothing but
count flowers on the wall
and smoke a late
meditative night cig
or two
once in a lonely
blue moon, well of
course I would completely
understand, dearest
after all
I didn’t just fall off
the rust patina
turnip truck.

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