Mal de Ojo

The badlander plods on
in search of castles crumbling
and a market for spare kidneys.
He's marching off demerits
assigned by decades gone.
There will be a line to urinate
on his grave a mile long.
"I'm all right with that," he says.
The dust forgets to answer.

Steel against his thigh
strikes a nerve within his spine.
He stuck himself in crazy
and flushed out the infection.
They want to see the proof;
he's not practiced, nor a preacher.
Inamorata, lovesick, waits atop a tower.

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