can i be honest and weird

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Horse, Horse, Packhorse

On the yogurt farm we used
my car’s roof as an ashtray
and threw protein cubes
at the sows. Vanilla.

Horse, Horse, Packhorse.

A connect-the-map-dots game
with the letter S inscribes
a pentagram on the world.
The horses of privilege running

Horse, Horse, Packhorse

on every hill as far as I could see.
Nostalgia is more than I can bear,
each fucking second a x-shaped
trail of scorched butterscotch slapped

Horse, Horse, Packhorse

on my heart, my actual heart,
the muscle sizzling and putrefying
in the sweetness. I want to stab
a hole in the gas tank engine and play

Horse, Horse, Packhorse,

drive the car a mile away, let you drop
the bic back at that random farm,
slam on the accelerator until
the flames catch up inside me, cooking

Horse, Horse, Packhorse,

thunder-clapping against the side of my face
like fireworks. But I don’t, and this nostalgia
eats everything. This resentment. Build it all
up like a cairn of cigarettes you forgot to

Horse, Horse, Packhorse.

Stack it all up. I’ll suck it in. I’ll metal gold-face
it and rage until my chest lashes open
that I never had any of it. Fuck.
Burn the yogurt. Watch the men,
the horses come, gnashing teeth.

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