—Bulleit Bourbon tagline

by Matt Zambito

Back then, the past tense meant more
than psychics: no one cared what was going
to happen next. Each death was just
to die for. Your age was the total number
of spikes on your silver spurs. Slaughter
distracted us from our happiness, and ham
was bacon, and bacon was banked on. Cash

grew from the ground like lettuce. “Poker”
wasn’t just a potentially perverted play on
words. Luck wasn’t even something
not to believe in, but still we lifted the dice
to the four-leaf-clover lips of lovers we
prayed could save us from ourselves. God,
gurgling “I AM” between tugs on milky

nipples, wasn’t unheard of. The silence of
dust made us unafraid to be not afraid. Moon-
shine was the manna we aged to get us
through the desert to the present. Everyone
wanted another shot at winning the carnival
game, while bleary-eyed, for a chance
to choose history’s ugly stuffed toy.

---

About the Author:

Matt Zambito is the author of The Fantastic Congress of Oddities, and two chapbooks, Guy Talk and Checks & Balances. New poems appear in swamp pink, Tampa Review, Heavy Feather Review, Slipstream, The MacGuffin, and elsewhere. Originally from Niagara Falls, he has lived in Ohio, Idaho, Washington, and New York, where he now resides with his rescue dog, Sadie. His favorite apple is the Fuji.