paging the schneid

A Poem by Dennis Mahagin

Admitting I know
next to nothing
about getting off
curse of the cosmos yet
your passport photo
does favor

Ezra, with a bit
of Chuck Connors
thrown in (The Rifleman?)
upper lip stiff with flaxen
mustache, arrowhead
soul patch for
the chin.

Thirty years
of position papers
putting down the hoot owl
and pecker wood, brown eyes
a glint hard as struck flint

make a crunching sound
of tough freaking
luck. I only ever

some feedback, soft
salty lamplight to nudge
me off

this bunker on a bright
sunny day, cinema

jump cut

like lightning in a bottle on a
wet bale of clay … yet here

we are again, frightening
away the Muse, you all
liquored, born

to lose, must be up
to me, make the last

move: gonna board

a Boeing jet, fly to the
Austin beyond all
knowing; get

thee in front

of me,
reflection above
the left tail

spin I’ll suck you
off like hard mint candy
as another cancelled
bell rings.

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