Deleted From History by Jay Passer

they called for my head under
boiling skies of mutiny.
a circus escapee locked in a box,
they had me sawing off lengths
for the casket,
to bury the bouquets, boughs of live oaks,
the cinema gone brackish-
an owl on a steeple attempting
to decipher the moon.
I gave up my spine plus the chakras,
a love letter to Buddha signed
Mister X.
I purchased a bicycle sight unseen
off the Internet,
same as my soul mate,
delivered to the door
by the golden-oldie concierge with
peaked cap and creased slacks.
you weren’t on the menu,
never on the boards,
like honey
stored in a whiskey bottle.
and for the finale the
rest of us
deleted from History,
blood trickling from a blasted sky
fields vanquished with
flourishes of opium,
while the 6 o’clock newscaster, meeker
than a field mouse
the message
deadly as a
diamondback.

Jay Passer's work was first published in Caliban magazine in 1988. He lives in the Tenderloin District of San Francisco, the city of his birth.

Jay Passer’s work was first published in Caliban magazine in 1988. He lives in the Tenderloin District of San Francisco, the city of his birth.

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