Flathead
by Wes Houp
He no longer curates
the muddy bottom
with his barbels
but dries on a shoal,
spines like ancient
sun-bleached tools
for punching leather
and mouth structure
like an ornate hinge
to the dark,
hyporheic
end of the world.
Behold the hideous
width of head,
eating its way
through the ass
of a continent,
a blunt press and
inconsolable
grunt-box
designed by a sadist
for the hard
and thankless
labor of the blues.
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