Monday, June 28, 2021

C.W. Blackwell


It wasn’t personal.

It’s the way you staggered
off the esplanade toward the
shoreline, sea spray blurring
the distance between us, how
no one else could see you
teetering in the sand but me.

You could have been any
Silicon Valley prick with a
gold-plated money clip,
key fob jigsawed with luxury
car logos, breath boiling
with twenty-year Scotch.

But you threw a punch as if
this could never happen to you,
as if taking a little heat after
last call in some gritty beach town
could only happen to renters,
clock-punchers, 9-5 commuters.

And now the water lifts you, sets
you down again. You drift in the
ebb tide facing a cold cottony sky,
a .38 special mushroomed in your
billion-dollar heart as I burn highway
miles in that new Lotus of yours.

Listen, man.
I told you it wasn’t personal.
I just needed it more than you.

C.W. reads "Eastside Shakedown":

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C.W. confesses: "I live in a tourist town with a seedy underbelly. We get a lot of wealthy Silicon Valley visitors who treat it like their own personal playground. Sometimes they stay too late, get too drunk, and come face to face with locals who aren't too impressed with their status. Things can get ugly, or worse."

C.W. BLACKWELL is an American crime fiction author and poet. His recent poetry has appeared in Close to the Bone's 4.4 Series, Versification, Punk Noir, and Dead Fern Press. His upcoming poetry book, River Street Rhapsody, will appear in April 2022.

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