Proclamation Of The Boogeyman Don’t trust me. My face has paint on it.An invisible and savory oil the cats find.Ignore me. Papyrus and bamboo pierce.Corn or rye fattens. These are lambskins,sepulcher harvest. Awns of wheat andalfalfa lilt full, spin and blow glimmersacross the thrashes of my mischiefs.The blades lace it into hay. And so oncethere were horns that blew that were shornoff herds, from those high, mountain goats.Song rang from the head of beasts andthe menfolk of they who slaughter,intestines strung along resin-soaked boards,plunkable, thumpable, from the gutsof the cattle to the chattel’s strut asymptoticto the rhythm of our trammeled bellows—as bad as going. I swayed with the bootiesstrapped to a back, salts and slaves andgold in the sand of an incandescentdesert creep, as hairy ghosts come to port,a pirate, his terrible posse. Iron surroundsthe necks of the dusty and displacéd.Finger-plucked gut rings, wed to the dinof itself. Ululating virgins and all the luckof love warbles. I followed. Lonesome men.Lonesome, lonesome men stayed. Jason Stenar Clark was born in the rail and cattle town of Nampa, Idaho in 1979. He graduated with his Bachelor of Arts with High Honors from Oberlin College. He is also a dancer and trained as a stable-boy.