Old Fashioned Facism Will Take Me

Your breath heavy smelled like ozone I caught your politics and persistent cough I wonder what parts of me you left with let's not get clichéd and say my heart it was probably pride an insult to my intelligence ceremonial daggers skewered deep into my insides. I enjoyed nights of dreaming with you of the land the farm the whispers in Japanese my mutters in French I swear you're a magician a naughty shaman or a leather clad copper with boots and cuffs and a gun weighted heavy in jackets an earring awkward large and mean. I'm straight Stein nursing heartache over Hemingway so gay he hunts only men. It is all brokeback popsicle sticks and three dog nights. Purple markers and faux handbags. Street preachers cowboys philosophers and their bottom boy muses. I am still thirsty.