The smell of Interstate Five leaving Stockton on Sunday.

Underwear labeled “Monday” on “Thursday.”

The flies surrounding the crucifixion on Friday.

Exists, something not to be smelled,

something said by Mr. Steal and his Miss Take

Playing the race card

Playing the race card

is a thing mis-interepted?

I have merely raised a book mark!

(Remember a book?)

That facts place, hit by an asterisk,

for foot notes to pump your brakes

to stop and stay a while.

Time out. Point of order.

See the circumference of my mortal coil?

Don’t mistake my dance for shuffle.

A race card is seen and not heard.

It is of titanium steel and
south African diamond.

It’s the extreme end of the design cycle
of the club.

Anubis feathers weighing less
than this heart.

It’s the work carried in the fields
with spades.

You will not see the

Race card being played,

When it is played.

It will be played with all deliberate accuracy

And extremely slow,

Slow as the Moor lashes.

Gene Howell Jr.
2018