A channel of brick—a flume
of brick hailing wisps of
exhaust
from pipe veins, lackluster
light, silent coolness.
His pocket bulged, his
wallet tearing,
though he accosted another
man.
Blackout.
The war in his head: his
awakening,
a void in pocket, a note
in the other.
“Your ID is at the police
station.
A word to the wise:
Don’t fuck an American.
He will take your money,
your livelihood, your
freedom,
and be justified in doing so,
and in doing so, be justified."
and in doing so, be justified."
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