Sparks Above the District

Cigarette ends omit an amberesque glow
Barely bright enough to illuminate
The white trash vaudevillians carrying on in the dark.

Whisky tinted eyes blur her rosé hair
Into a firecracker tail streaking down 2nd Ave.
Our superficial sojourn becomes legend in one runny mascara blink.

On a hill overlooking the Cumberland,
We throw up our hands and scream
As if this city were Thunderhead and we were careening over the drop.

High, shrill, ugly. Our voices stretch thin,
Grasping at our legacy like jewel encrusted horns.
Addiction, depression, diet pills, and God buck wildly in the broken glass bottle streets. 

My mouth flies open as she pulls me, hard, onto the wild bull's back.
She loops the wire of a microphone through his shiny septum ring and pulls--
Before I can catch my breath, she's tamed him.

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