A Fashioned Statement


We acquaint ourselves with asphalt, our ashy knees
and skin the thirsty dreams of the Sahara,

our ripped jeans
not so much the fashion statement of a causeless

but a fashioned statement, the piety of never

having a prayer. The dog thinks it’s a game;
the inebriants are Pavlov’s

summons for treats (you learn quickly
of the handcuff fetish, the intimacy

of a loaded glock, and that the belldoes indeed toll for thee). “Here boy,” a white man whistles at me 

somewhere in the recesses
of my exile.

“You and my dog are the same color,
and I just thought…” My friend could see all

the colors. Fifteen minutes wasted,
and the dog’s tail hangs limp at its loss.



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