The Young Have Good Eyes

When the new gens revisited
epidermal ink
I knew it would be awhile before
they had skin in the game

It was a tell
To the coming tribal
A revival of clan
in a hermitic guise
of a timestamped

of a coming future broken,
the history of which is
being written,
Right damn now.


I could crack open that new Friday bottle of Basil Hayden,
and bourbon up to channel that Nobel Prize winning poet,
with an under earphones and riotous rendition of the last song
on John Wesley Hardin. Those Good Ole Days… People.


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