Eg*OS

Wall Street Confidential

I gave up Nancy my wife for the private and inauspicious love of a komodo dragon. I
gave up my vegan roots for Xanax, Fox, Ugandan beef. I traded Pabst Blue for Blue
Tooth, my nipple ring for a ranch in Naples. I learned everything has a price, especially
money. I gave up money. That is, I gave up paper. I gave up the cause for the good fight.
I gave up tax reform for motion sickness, welfare justice for the military-industrial
complex. I encouraged bootstraps. I still fry my own bologna. I once sold very very high.
I shorted LEH to EKG as they tore through ARMs like RPGs. I was finding Sensex less
than Nifty so I fabricated futures, hedged my bets. I huddled, negotiated, undercut my
mentors, missed a catch, caught a block and punted, wept openly and showered with the
team. We agreed it was a job for nobler men. We agreed it was a job for cannibals. We
ushered each other dripping through the corridors, patenting our bruises. We were our
parents' helioscopic somethings, peripherally viewed; a poorly inked Woodstock
woodcut, the tambourine and the sound of the tambourine snapping. Sometimes I still
blush when people ask for directions. Sometimes I still worry to think.

Joe Millar’s first collection of poems, Autobiomythography & Gallery, was named “Best First Book” of the year by coldfront magazine. He grew up along the Space Coast of Florida, attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and now lives in New York City, where he acts as co-Director of Go North gallery.