You have this look in your eyes
like a pill in peanut butter
hidden and bitter and vile
they’ll call you the patron saint of splattered blood and deli sodas.
One day this look will spark
and we’ll take it outside
fight under lamp posts for dignity and half eaten snow.
I’d lose, probably,
when I notice how the dingy street light frames you
and how angels don’t always look like the ones in the holy books;
we’d look like feral dogs
starving and bloodied
skin only keeping us alive.
What godless creatures we’d be.
You’d try to put me in a sharpshooter after, as a joke,
dare me to lie over traintracks
laying flat enough to be alive
but not much else.
I think you would be Shawn Michaels
and I would be Bret Hart
and we’d be somewhere between Manhattan and Montreal
sometime between 8 PM and 1997.
Let me tell you a secret браток,
one I only whisper to the painting of Jesus in the dome of St. Nicholas’ Cathedral
my favorite secret, really
I think I'd let you kill me
stand nice and still so you won’t mess it up
you fucking piece of shit.