Written by Joni Caggiano


you ride your bike, crying down the hard dirt road
your morning spent killing flies
their price, a penny a carcass
handing me my money through the soul of their drunken hollow
you wonder, would they spend a penny for me
I buy hot balls in a brown paper bag with my pennies
they torture my tongue, geographical as it was
it seems I am a rarity for the military doctors
I stick paintbrush handles up my nose
and bubble gum when its sugar is gone
anemic, they threaten me with blood transfusions
sounds interesting to me; I ride home with my torture
now I kill flies on the outside of the door
of the red-brick house, with my bedroom with its cold red floor
You will collect copper-colored prizes
but not for a while, as they will be sick
lonely employment for the sober


Text ©  Joni Caggiano



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