The Crack of Don

Banana split dreams
and directions to a gold mine
My sheets are
twistin' in the wind,
flap and snap
and fins and skin
big blown bellies on the clothesline.
Banana split sea, westerly
wind on the ass end.
In the water in the sink
brass monkeys tinkle and clink
canines rippin, drippin pink
flesh of over-ripened bovine.

Don's Lincoln Town Car
got as far as
Sharyland
then quit by the Dairy Queen Don
used to work
til when that jerk-off showed him the gun.
Was a Saturday black hole
before dinner dusk
rush buzzing on the radar, but
just him and Javier
and the
minute this guy jingles in
I thought, shit, this
is not going to be one of your normal transactions.
This kid's hunger went off menu,
which is a good in some.  But,
he shoots a glance
to the white-hairs in the corner, tongue-probing
dip cones, and
says all twitchy:
gimme a large Big Red, large.
Fuck the DQ man, let him have the money.
Fuck this punk too, though
tapping the counter with the pants slung low--
Don playing pin the
finger on the magic key,
mumbling Castaneda incantations--
which,
when invoked (via gunmetal ting)
unbuckled "Belt Buster"
at the time,
Don's brutal,
conclusive
alter-ego