Spellbound
by Jonathan Moody



The inside
hood mirror of a ‘57
Chevy Bel Air
reflects downed
power lines
& Rockabilly
beauties in Francine
dresses stuffing
money down bullet
bras.

Doomy, twisted
on the ambrosia
of Shiner Bock
backwash, has given
electricity consent
to ravish his body.

Three-to-one odds
says vultures
will ignore
his cooked
flesh; five-to-one
he struts
away unfazed—
the smoke
from his enamel
dollar-
sign flask,
rising
like inflation.

Ants lassoing
honkey-tonk
road kill
wait until
the last second
to place their bets—
unaware Zeus
tasered
Doomy once
for having
an alcohol
tolerance
level higher
than Dionysus.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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