CJ McCollum, or the Lehigh Lobster. The handle is impeccable. For some reason I bet he owns multiple pairs of Sanuks. Misses his old ACG sandals. Asks people, “Hey, what’s that I got soul but I’m not a soldier song? Is that Bruno Mars?”
He has never not stopped at a pie place if they advertise sugar free desserts. Lifts at the church gym, runs on a track suspended above the basketball court, dodges the older women in Hokas. His Silverado is rose.
He’s that baddest one. Why they call stars stars, lions lions. His feet Manhattan, altering migration patterns with coughs, busting open the spaces in the earth so there is nothing small, or closed.
Defenders trying, amassing weapons troves. Readying rocket launchers, pallets of nuclear warheads, grenades, compound bows, machetes, katana swords, Bowie knives, spears, muskets, throwing stars, drones. He’s the forgone conclusion, la fin, the closing of all eyes. In the sky next to Libra watching the world melt, adorning his toes with the rings of Saturn.