That Blue Flamingo Necklace by David Spicer

A jarhead without a mission, a Russian
cutlass my favorite blade, I engaged
in mock battles with my girlfriend’s mother.
Harassed privates when they yawned
at muster, offered them rum in their coffees,
or ordered them to crackle their gonads.
That hurt, I’m sure. But I counseled them
on the art of wearing headphones, and never
wore fatigues without zippers, lest my sperm
leak. I’ve worried about losers half
my punchbowl life, and loved a woman, Pat,
who sported a burn-scarred throat. I’ve shuffled
evil, hell yes, I’m not reserved about revealing
sleepy secrets: I’ve sold ivory as if it were
an Arizona snowball, broken the law when I stole
tacos from a narcoleptic rickshaw driver in Bangkok.
Now I own nothing except that blue flamingo
necklace Pat gave me when I knew all the answers.

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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