The Carotid Kid, taught from a young age

that matter how much he trains, no matter

how hard he works to develop his skills

(and I assure you, I’ve seen the guy extract

a jagged splinter from the paw of his Bichon

Frise just by looking at it and frowning)

there will always be somebody better. But

the Carotid Kid always goes for the fucking

throat anyway, he is a butterknife, he erodes

a fine canyon for his loved ones to call home

by the sheer persistence of his feet, standing

in one place for millennia and beyond (his brow

a mantle upon which determined tchotchkes

rest, arms crossed). This Carotid Kid, a new

kind of hero, savior of the 21st century, no

spoons in his mouth regardless of the metal

from which they are fabricated, just look at this

grizzly-ass motherfucker. You want to be

the Carotid Kid, to teach the world to bleed

out into your steady hands, desire this, need

this. There is always somebody ready, better

than you, but the Carotid Kid is patient (what’s

in a name, in a title done in Caps Lock?), praying

for his children to rise against, to rend him limb

from limb, scrap him for parts to be weaponized,

fully realized in the search for better tomorrows.