pottymouth

Listen to author

I can’t genocide; it’s been a long morning. At the insistence of a veterinarian, I prayed the ghetto slum moon, and stutter waltzed my way back to the Bolivian shore. That’s where I met Thayo. Thayo is a short wave radio receiver bouncing static from inside red revolver’s chamber. Thayo is the Sun Dog ex-sycophant who sees his name as more than noun, and closer to adjective city. I don’t flatter. Nothing much moves. I approach the dusk with caution. “Faster,” I said, pointing to some poor wobbly piker with a Saturn erect metaphysicality. Thayo held out his soggy hand. “Here are three blue chords,” he said, “choose your truth with care—like a lover, or a b-side, or a gun.” I looked back at the moon. The veterinarian had failed me. I walked back out over the dulling anamorphic tide, leaving Thayo armed to record as I sung the first verse.