Country Music
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Jon Thrower



The Middleweight, Head on the Mat, Defeated, Murmured (maybe) the Following



staring at thick plush nicotine carpet in the principal's office at Hawthorne

School while Mr. Clippard barks, you can't just go around striking others



the over-painted red, white, and blue commodore in my childhood

bedroom with stumpy, white cabrioles, blue apron, and red drawers

to be an American is to have a sense of being knocked on your ass

but having the wherewithal to get up again ignorant and angry



with the kids standing in line at the Cleveland Museum of Natural History

waiting to see the sarcophagus of the boy king shining gold and lapis



in my life I have known many Dr. Daves, their Disney-like love of consonance,

most of them decent men except Livingston, that asshole cut-man in Killeen




Nobodaddy, dream come true me, every searching eye etc.

unleashed like the Life Magazine bulls through the tourists Pamplona



Pamplona, Pamplona, Pamplona (a place?) becoming a koan, a mantra,

a breath, jab-jab-move, which is the pugilist's spirit, place where he arose



myths, for instance (like the phoenix, a rabid chupacabra or the king of pop,)

science maybe too (alteration in the behavior of a thing observed)



I think I believe what I know what I mean, the man with a beard

and in the case of Moses, with horns too, like Grandma said



no one is a better example of foolishness than yourself, bum

are you ever gonna get off this floor? the crowd noises rising: shhhh




Jon Thrower responds to art, economics, and Country Music not paying him for his poems.