Cody Draco
Please Don’t Hesitate to Put This Old Dog Down
why does being loved feel like a betrayal
when he comes factory-equipped
with a ceramic-coated Toyota Prius dagger
that both picks me up and punctures my outdated sails
under the guise of tender loving care?
I thought that maybe I had stopped writing
because I started living outside of the Humpty Dumpty head
which once stretched its independent network of neural pathway arms
to hug all of the lonesome bullied thoughts contained within
until its world peace-leading potential is splattered on the street
and cooked scrambled despite its big dream of living over-easy
what I’ve discovered in the interim
between my Best Of and my Retrospective
is that I may have run out of legible ink
but I never lack passion or the ability to synthetically think
which for those uninitiated is like using a slimy sticky hand toy
to grab unrelated concepts and weave them together
in a silky web of unpunctuated phrases
until they are strong enough to land
a fat protein-packed snack of a manuscript tentatively titled
Protocols in the Event a Privileged Prince Needs Saving
this sorcery of sorts has become my useless specialty
is it wrong to think that white guilt
might be why my hairline is receding?
is it not-so-great familial genetics or horrific historical timing
that makes where I’m at what I’m feeling
stressed and stupid enough
to shoulder some of the blame
for people who share a similar skin pigment
but with which I have never stood eye to eye?
whatever the answers may be
and whoever has the right of way at the Rotary
some matters of the heart refuse to be defined
you see,
I used to confuse another man’s dictionary
for being interchangeable with mine
but I’m fluent in a foreign language
littered with landfill idioms and repurposed metaphors
only comprehensible to the lone surviving ‘I’
I used to be a wasteland baby wasting away
until these pages and pages of unsent love letters
began to burn by the freshly mowed wayside
now, my untapped manwhore potential fuels his oil drum fire
upon which, if need be, we could roast a rotisserie
Get Lucky lightning seems close but never quite strikes
on these sticky southern Kentucky summer nights
it’s humid yes,
but I’m shivering from the katabatic wind
that free-falls from the peak of our shared existence
later crossing the terrible tundra that remains uninhabited
because within my nuclear test site mind
nothing but radiated memories of a past life survive
once again,
my nervous system has detonated a delayed response
to the residual trauma of a ghost story I may never share
but my man is here
and he is always there
turquoise towel wrapped up tight while drying his Jesus hair
these small details are shurikens cutting through the smoky air
often met by a dissociative blank stare
not because he lacks the enigma
after all,
he could’ve been a cult leader
if he didn’t deny access to the dumbass masses
opting for the occasional annoyance
of a refugee displaced by their recklessness
a heat-seeking missile that boomerang returns
towards my own overwhelmingly warm-bodied desire
since being in a villain era is no longer rare
neither is a man combing calloused fingers through another’s hair
I can’t remember why I turned heel in the first place
if it were ever for the ratings I can confirm I’ve failed
the favorite show of about five people has long since been canceled
and my sincere apologies have been sent via snail mail
but just in case the current administration
puts the United States Postal Service out to pasture
I will admit my faults in a bubble-wrapped FedEx package
that I coughed up my piggy bank to have next-day shipped
alas, I should have first offered you, the reader
the open oozing wound of a laughably late disclaimer:
"this is not how I meant the narrative to unfold
but the unstructured brilliance
for which I have slept on aimlessly scattered scaffolds
has never led to the Brave New World
of a New York Times bestseller
and as far as I’m concerned
I hope it never will
because to make money off the back of magic
commonly misdiagnosed as creative madness
invites all of the elements necessary
for mold to grow upon a previously never-stagnant soul
despite acing Economics and being “about my business”
I refuse to be another straight-laced statistic
when instead I could be a confounding queer outlier
since society’s fear of weird is what led me here”
p.s.
if you ever hear me making that horrific CHA-CHING sellout sound
and wearing Doc Martens while pandering to some pub house crowd
please don’t hesitate to put this old dog down
Cody Draco is an emerging queer poet, settled but never stagnant, creatively restless in the rural sanctuary of southern Kentucky, United States. His work carves through raw emotional terrain, wielding sharp societal critique, surreal imagery, and language bent to his will. Unflinching yet deeply human, his poetry pushes boundaries while distilling meaning from the void of 21st-century existence in an intentional effort to code a new masculinity. His work has either been featured in or is forthcoming by publications such as Dark Poets Club, Madville Publishing, TrashLight Press, Coin-Op Press, and FreshWords Literary. He can be found on Instagram @codydraco and at his website:
Banner Art:
from Achelous and Hercules, Thomas Hart Benton, 1947
