the cab drivers
pull into gas stations, enticed
by the light of zeros
such brightness
meaning nothing, all out
I pick oil off the water
I pick oil
there is always some left
at the bottom
or stripped up the sides
fucked and left stranded
like the coast
its beautiful lazy
endless versions
I’m trying, but each time
fucking is like flying – There is
more or you die
there is oil
it makes boats of birds
I flap
what could happen any minute
and the minutes lost
probably off somewhere
the drive up, its
bolted down furniture
no walls
not wanting the same thing
as someone else
wanting it again
play in spite of weaponry
spear across his lap
impending from the sky
moving it
the glint of steel
and lechery
its purpose legendary
the thought of men he’s slain
the polish
the worse men
because they’ve lost

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