On a Sunday Afternoon I.C.E. bled though our door packing heat. We took the lead, marched in front of a jittery virgin trigger-finger ready to earn his gold-stitched vest. We fetched stained papers masked in plastic & jolted from the blast of a tailpipe backfiring, calling like winter from a shallow puddle. They checked us … Continue reading Carcinogenic Poetry: Top Ten No. 2