by Paul Blackburn
Staggering down the road at midnite
home from the bar, the
mexican Bandit stood facing me, about
to improve his standard of living
Two
fingers handled the moustache gently,
the other hand fingered the pistol. My asshole
dropped out/
and crawled all the way back to El Paso
From:
The New American Poetry 1945-1960, Donald Allen
Copyright ©:
University of California Press (1999)
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