PLFC

Goose-step strings of chords
same sing a g-major march.
Slap back,
pick scratch,
feedback grass-blade whistle
and then
your friend
jumps out the apartment window
to his
end.
Your dear friend.
Square secret
and keep it that way.
But we all knew.
The drone hid well;
under the red Rendezvous,
behind the stripper's jewelbox,
in the locks of Ballard
and in the dried blood
organ key groan.
The unreliable narrator
drove straight home
from the El Paso Graveyard
with a soaked oil railroad tie
and a can to paint it white.
They want to hear him.
The fucking bastards
want to hear him
say 'Mandrake'.
The leslie speaker shakes her hips
and the narrator
reads the happy totals.
It's too late to be humble,
one boot propped up under the
Key West sign.
It's too late to be great again.
The golden age of smelterville
is here.