Nocturne with a Pistol and a Night Bazaar
Please feel free to call us, the police, or do it yourself if you have the gun, you have my support.
—Rodrigo Dutarte on extrajudicial murders of drug offenders
His hair is tied back with rubber bands beneath
his motorcycle helmet and the visor
reflects back the incongruous neon
as the heat beneath his crotch localizes his thinking:
he will fire after the man orders his drink.
Afterhours are precincts, delirious with workers,
starved by their histories and even more ravenous
than this boy idling in the alleyway. The cash
in his breast pocket an advance just above his heart.
The wrong light of the parlors erases the dark,
save the silver chain of the target’s stopwatch.
And how the night’s field opens and compromises
a breastbone — a spiraling bullet’s pirouette and
the crocus-like mechanism of blood on a shirt,
opening because justice is a question and the answer
is a secret, isn’t it? To gun the motor past the scene
and the virtues of the age. The heat between thighs —
the high of the report shocking the thumb
with the pistol’s kickback and the promise of the payout
all because of God’s work. Isn’t it God’s work?
This fever? This heretofore? This magical scald?
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