I was off the hook when I dialed it in,
when this blue moon face
told me to head ‘er.
An action film at the Ridge where
I hit the curb on a righthand turn,
I’m not in my body today, babe.
Too many hours unsticking pages
in the old man’s ‘zines. 
Yeah, yeah, I blame it on too much protein.
So, I go for late night carbs at
Anna Miller’s where I pull
on my beard, straining from bacon to, “What if..
I’d’ve given in to cigarettes?”
But they don’t look right on me,
like tatoos. Like tight pants.
Less James Dean, more Jimmy.
Damn them pigs!
With guns! With intentions!
There’s a scientist somewhere that says 
the missing link may be swine.
Thinking of you, babe, with you’re too much sun.
A crispy, burned belly and boobs.
A lot of bright, brown faces here pull me from my theories,
simultaneously making my mouth water, my stomach bleed.
Smoking bodies. Sizzling bodies.
Rotisserie bodies.
No cure for me, babe.
My head between two shanks,
addicted to the briny aroma.
Looking for the pink, throwing to the coals
pulling for the pork, covering with dirt.

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