Buscemi

with toe-rings like james franco’s

and a jesus who wants to be known as jess

if he decides to wear that dress

tonight, tonight,

lying in a bad revolver

come into view, purloined from the cabinet that

is brick triangular

and fits snugly, near, for mein grip,

or handily, if you prefer, if you like

the wall becomes a gate

and even though it’s not to my taste

it sits in tight where my commentary starts

above my work in the comma’s space

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