9 ball massacre

going to the bar with K last minute
driving to mill town
“a Sunday drive on a Thursday
night”
she buzzing, loses 9 ball to blonde
chubby girl
19-1, the men saying, “that’s a massacre”
the redneck saying, “no pun intended”
smiling at the Native ones
who say “the massacre of our people
can never be forgiven,” clasping hands
saying that’s right. Later, I hear
the redneck whisper about that “crazy indian,” insulted.
I shot him dirty looks
looked at everyone like don’t fuck
with my coolest, most wounded ones

the people there like wax
figures, busted cowboys, former
roller derby queens, once
teenage studs wearing same
80’s haircuts, but wrinkled old
faces now.
K outside, “it is stressful,”
her daughter teenage rioting
cigarettes tasting so good
in the buzz night
beer tasting so good
falling asleep in the back seat
of K’s car, being comforted
by it like as a kid, not even
noticing she drove home
in weaving ocean sky

H showing me one of his carvings
explaining it like explaining a poem
it made of birch bark, light
and bone like
a carving of Natives hunting in canoe
a torch at front, spears in hand
hunting sturgeon, the canoe carrying over
to the other side, “a journey,”
the coolest cigarette holder I’ve seen
a black string to pull it open with
“the canoe is the wood”
he gave it to K for her new
journey away. The goodness
of being able to shoot pool, to have eyes
for it, focus for it. I just try to drag
objects near with my energy

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