They Called a Boy Scout Cocksucker

  it is in the boy scout nature to make good on promises. now he folds a triangle rolls the long edge toward the point, but leaves a portion unrolled. he fastens the neckerchief around his neck, clasps the ends with slide or woggle. then they kick his ass: those boys who don’t wear neckerchiefs, who don’t grasp boy scout philosophy. ascots, scarves, and bandanas get their panache moments sashays around the throats of badgeless bandy-abouts who use terms like avec cravat who read dans le magasin, of a joint effort never in style. in a world with two sticks two stones, you would know the woggle the neckerchief catches fire; the boy would give you that world worn unrolled and exact a rumple here a rumple there new styles mapped in magazine ink: the vision of soft collar silk slumped on the shoulders stole of dead fox esophagus, or the buffalo horn headdress worn not just with war cries, or three bloody noses made glossy in a recurring dream, bully carved.