An Interdiction Is Addressed to the Hero, by Zach Buscher

Meth-people fixed Hero up
in a lab dubbed Smiley’s Silo.
As child, put the “dung”
in bildungsroman, forking

business legit, over.  That is
to cop that Hero was a front,
and to 5-0 just another Ozark
shit-shoveler in Buddy Lee’s.

A scaredy-boy, baptized
by the mercury rich waters. 
Razed autism awareness with laser
eyes, hooked Black Deaths at five.

Virginity proved early bird elusive.
Scrubbed out quick but couldn’t
graveyard perfume from sheets
hand-me-downed a shroud of urine.

He came upon her likeness
again, outside Bisbee, Arizona. .
Big face billboarded.  Thunk
she looked tad more scabrous version

having somehow broken cine-biz in.
Swore himself he’d later rent her out.
Good-natured feller, our Hero.  Stuff
simple folks appreciate.  Of course,

he never touched product.  Never
crushed bones to the nose-hole.
Kept happy cleaning their crumbs,
spinning corpulent tales for the spun.

Snap before the raid, Hero was taught
ways to while the explosion after.
Go play dead for a period
circa 5-10, thinking served time.

Hero took this advice, took it
to heart and to the automatic
like a natural nut.  Ain’t quite right
that boy but quite the shot.