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  1. I sit on a truck's bed,
    staring
    at the bonfire.

    My cousin Skip
    picks some notes on a banjo,
    fingers fluttering half as fast
    as the eyes of that pretty girl
    he wants to take home tonight.

    Friends,
    known only from the shadows
    they cast by the firelight,
    dance
    with kamikaze grins splitting their faces,
    a skeletal sway to their shoulders.

    Gouts of flame flicker and flip;
    wood-smoke-wisps
    birthing, living and dying
    all within the crackle
    of a second.
  2. I was born
    in a leather jacket;
    fists raised and
    bawling out some syllables
    that might've been
    "F*ck the world."

    Not much has changed.