He’s my Collar

What is this secret persona that you sing about? 

The garbage kitchen you squall in, old songs you regurgitate 
for microphones and strangers, the name given to you and 
the way you miss the inflection of my voice when I say it incorrectly,

Not a single person knows you the way that I do, 

and that is why you keep coming back to reality, residing in a culture
you loathe but take advantage of when you eat mediocre Mexican
and lick your fingertips then touch a one of a kind Lakota painting
because it’s in your nature to leave your mark everywhere

Jumping over fences and shotgunning car rides with a belly
full of energy drinks like you’re some bro next door
in his black beanie, all marked in tattoos

barefoot and day drunk in the grass at the park
barefoot and stoned in the car at a Denny’s parking lot
barefoot and brutal in the bed at Hicksville Trailer Palace
roleplaying barefoot pregnant drunk abuse with a dog collar
around my neck, Tucker never biting his own tongue stench of 
mixed alcohols and cigarettes 
Maisie had imprints of your fingers living on her for months

You live this way when you want, how you want, the authority of
dominion, one person who encompasses every individual division of you
authentically       universally       gift-wrapped
from the assemblage of stars you worship
submission and sonnets ready for production
leaving you fawning for fresh coffee and companionship
that enables you to forget the time of your flight back to
your persona life in England.

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