out here, every other guy
has a big honkin'
pickup truck,
along with his workboots,
and his torso,
even the accountants,
and the pasty-faced boys
who pass themselves off
as men in the trades,
hidin' behind RayBan shades;

the posers of the sticks,
lookin' to pick up chicks,
but just as likely to wind up
at 2 a.m. with a palmetto,
as anything attached to a

I wonder how they pay
for their gas,
and still have enough
left over
to venture over near
the underpass
and manage to pay
for a piece of ass;

their dark, dank, secret,
torn little lives,
living in a basket
of thorns, they portend
the tragic circumstance
of yet unseen morns,
life impaled on their
charging horns, as they
gallop full bore toward
the goal of yore,

and they live, and breathe,
with so much to relieve,
that it spews from them
like blood from a butchered hog;

and they run, and they hide,
and they have slivers of glass
inside, and they do not know
where next to go;

and the torture of the treadmill
captures them whole,
and they turn into those
who are fit for the role,
and they stammer and sputter
and spittle flies from their lips,
but solace eludes them,
just past their fingertips;

and then one day,
they take all that pressurized rage,
and they light it on fire,
and then burst from the cage;

and the scenes that are left lingering,
cause all to start wondering,
where did these creatures come from,
though all should know,
as it is easy to show,
they came from the midst of us;

and I think for a moment
that I must be in the
Small Penis Capital of the World,
but it is so much more than that,
so much more.

September 15, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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