we were so drunk on illusion,
driving days through wasted lands
on wasted hours, telling fables
about how we’d clean all of this up
the day we came to power
to the people we infected with
our laughter ringing out across
state lines and party lines
and white lines in one story hotels
where we brought the extra stories
underneath sheets smelling of
other people’s sweat
equity in living lives and dying deaths and
almost making a sum, or a difference —

carrying our own chalk outlines,
living the vip life on the ssdi
incoming sorties, the war of all against
some knew, and some only pretended to know
measures were not taken, precautions
more like suspicions we had that
all the salt we used for margaritas
had to come from somewhere

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