Guzzle A Cactus by David Spicer

Mitch and I puffed a joint
and drank Buds on top
of his five-color van in the hot
badlands noon, sniffed glue,
shared contempt of young beggars
who wore stinky pork pies,
and gratified ourselves by painting
the scrap-metal building with red
graffiti. Mitch sprayed Wear
a Helmet, Be a Bicycle Bastard.
Swallow a Bone, Guzzle a Cactus,
I answered on a manager’s trailer.
We swigged the rest of the twelve-pack,
eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
before Mitch began to shoot chickens
in the canyon as the stereo blared
Ghost Riders in the Sky. I crammed
three cherry bombs in a mailbox,
howled, Fire in the Hole!
and it exploded. He called me
an asswipe, so I threw a baby
buggy at him but missed.
Then Mitch said, Let’s go visit
the woman I’m gonna marry!
Who’s that? I asked. Hell if I know
until I meet her! he answered,
just before the Doberman barked,
the lunch whistle blew, and we
plopped the stinky pork pies
back on our young beggar heads.

David Spicer
David Spicer has had poems in Yellow Mama, Reed Magazine, Slim Volume, The Laughing Dog, In Between Hangovers, The American Poetry Review, Easy Street, Ploughshares, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., Dead Snakes, and in A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism (Salo Press, 2016). He has been nominated for a Pushcart, is the author of one full-length collection of poems and four chapbooks, and is the former editor of Raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books. He lives in Memphis, Tennessee.

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