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Witbeck
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The Tunnel Rat
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avoiding taxes, poaching touristas
from the lesbian discotech, paying a doctor
to shove pig glands in his shoulder.
What’s good for the goose is good
for the liver. Stateside for the summer,
it’s all windows dark with tar paper,
a fifth of Kessler’s, a hooter of homegrown.
He only leaves for the liquor store,
telling Tammy her tits were all he had
to dream of in Tijuana.
A tender mouthful. He was never alone
in the musty villa of memory: the mama-sans
of Khe Sanh, the brown thighs,
the boats full of dragonfruit.
He tunnels beneath the chuy trees,
the boats full of dragonfruit.
He tunnels beneath the chuy trees,
the sick-sweet smell of the dead, firebombed
from heaven into putty,
a mother and daughter twisted together
like copper wire. Tammy, baby,
I’ll tell you what I know.
There’s the hole you crawl into
and the day you can’t get out.
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