THIS MAKESHIFT
CONGLOMERATE
Traffic always runs to the right and this
makeshift conglomerate seems to be be
making me ill. They're trilling their tribal
songs again on the wedding floor and the
thick babes with clothes the size of a
thimble pretend to be dancing but
really are just watching a seam. I can't
even stand their voices, and everything's
a scream. If I was a drilling man, I'd drill;
a firecracker, I'd explode; a marksman,
they'd be down in a minute, and the whole
room in it; a betting man, I'd bet there's
danger lurking. As it is, I'm just a juggler
out of time and everything's collapsing.
My stage-show folded, the last wind's
through, and the doorway is calling
my name. This staccato rap music guy
is sounding. They used to call this a
hoe-down, now they just call it a day.
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