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By Anthony Aguero
He wanted to die, Little Rebel.
Man’s zipper running amuck his lips,
Gun cocked. Sorry about the pain:
He dreams so much of swaying palms
It becomes a foreign miracle. He shoots.
His climax. They only started to dance,
To move from right to left from left to right.
Encore for the dying boy. The shooting stars.
Is this too much for you? He’s as high
As he’ll ever be with no concrete below
To smash him into a million stars,
A thousand ripped apart palms.
They’ll say But O, the love in his eyes.
A thousand guns going off at once,
He’s reached his peak. He wants down.
But O, the love in those eyes, burning tree.
Burning star. Burning metal cold against
His dead-boy cheeks.
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