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Packing up Nola

I pray to the airport you remember
defining braised for me, despite the
vegan sloppy joes. You fill my whole head

like a banged-up suitcase, when
the dame to my left hefts a handheld
transistor radio; the only connection

is music, but nevertheless. She offers nuts
from a tiny duffle - because if no one else
eats them, they’ll go bad: first stale,

then rancid - and blue eyes sear me sharply
when I glance at the pills in there. I want
to say ma’am, I understand anxiety:

it’s a baseline. But my mouth is full
of voodoo sugar, and I’m still a hot stew
over your brass timbre, nerves rendered

sort of invisible, like clear plastic tableware
at dusk. I was a weightless drunk, with
all kinds of deities under my sweater –

but then they got out, and I got
some red and some green beads. You
can’t tell the difference. Anyway,

some things are better in black
and white, or without experimental
evidence, like how the baby 

would’ve turned out. Later on I’ll unpack
my concept of God - but this one
is all mine, and sealed tight for travel,

like a half-pound box of pralines.
Posted 10/18/12
For SM
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