“Paranoiac No. 3: Prospicience” by Jonah Mixon-Webster

is the ordinariness of color
is dirty money
is the last trap on the left
is the viscous part gone amok; an echo-shuffle of feet shucking
is the plug telling you he wouldn’t bullshit
is a blackish colored rat he spit up—its body hobbled in bile, already a sung secret
is getting gurbed for your last for what he said was that loud, but wasn’t
is the dead wail of a red siren
is the way the houses bent the sound of it, breaking every light
is a wish sent to shield the body from vision
is one on each side and each side brightly beaming
is an obligatory curbside prayer
is a fever-dash of masquerade blooding up in thought
is soon glutted with the idea of rimfire, two shells, and a striking hammer
is a setup and I don’t mind saying it
is a cop—or even a would-be-hood-nigga
is the shadow stare starting from the half-lit block
is when I knew he had it all planned out
is a Gestalt shift:

a key, a flash of metal turned four-nickel already half cocked