One-Week Dean

By Daniel Aristi

You hombres’d like to know maybe or, rather, I’d like to tell you of a pale whoreboy by the Texaco, like the last chocolate – he’s long been travelling, he says, the capillaries of the nation.

Leather-Jacket-Right-On-Own-Skin type this fallen, fallen, three times fallen James Dean; jacket’s unzipped, door ajar & straight into his ivory (also, Marlboros for fireplace).

He meets men under mesh cap domes, the John Deeres, the corn-minded – & they eat him in fast-forbidden, the prince with the pachinko body who services the back alleys in America.

Look close at this dandelion of a runaway loving quickly men all men, because next week he’s gone, next Sunday, with the gipsy rains, and buried.

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Daniel Aristi

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