Victory’s Aftershave

We’re all running from the same cockroach
searching for that fake moment:
the apex of tossing waves, a tide
shelling more than its own sand,
magnetic plastic, water unboiling
and reboiling, a picket fence
with personality, gasoline torched
sunrises, smoke signals
arriving on time, anticlimactic
cancer, a ring that fits insecurity,
the eye of a tornado, victory’s aftershave,
the engines of storm clouds, anger in mosaic form,
two hearts stilled in amber,
a sword made of good-will, wet money held
in old age’s palm,

I’ve heard it all before,
the novelist wandering the world,
knapsack of mercury on back,
wielding an opus only second
to the champion of night crawlers,

a faltering crescendo. A gaze saturated
with too-much-whiskey and dug-up-sunflowers,
plea dealing with silence, nowhere specific
not to anyone at all,

what if this is it?

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