A Tourniquet for Tankas

Haven’t been so
green at
following dreams since
these lungs drew first breath,
but now that we’ve
witnessed the near
death of
a generation,
our patience with
up-and-comers is limited
at best.

I haven’t felt
so amateur since
my repertoire of
words read
like film noir,
detective of
detriment staking out femmes
fatales in black cars
far removed from monocular
streetlights’
scrutiny.

That was
when I did
not consider
night an ally
and was ready to
die if it
appeased
daylight
I
worshiped.

I haven’t been yours without
some measure of last resort
since
metaphors were
mitochondrial;
chemical cults with
the medical pull
to punctuate
falsified results which
gave flight to
figurative full
metal
jackets.

But neither was
I ever
mine enough to attract
it to higher callings.

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