Trickle Drown Economics

“I sleep better in a storm,”
she said, nearby yet distant
“It should pour every night
until five in the morning
every day.”

Sorrow makes the car start falter
my week of Mondays (with overtime)
rolling the dice until lightening strikes
ducks in a row with tequila and lime
give me a break
or finish breaking me.

Billionaire bastards
crouched in your castles
eating glass and misery
won’t you make it rain?

Passive Regression

Sunlight warming white-gold sand
bold sky enticing me into the blue
I tottered on an uneven keel
and plunged into a hidden pool
and through the rippling window
glare refracted and scattered
while I settled peacefully
lolling limp
and carefree as kelp
until a hand
as big as the world
broke through, grasped me
and pulled me back into the world.

Baptized when their backs were turned
playing host to terrors nightly
I inherited the family legacy
a fish out of slaughter
the blackened sheep
generations of futility
our tree of lost sanity
a lone thread in the tapestry of misery
we are woven together so hatefully
(smile for the picture).

“Sour little grape, moody bear
fell in the ocean and shed a river
you’ll never remember this day
and soon you’ll forget the next
I am the beginning, I am the bitter end
I am your mother, I am not your friend
no shark would dare to eat you
no depths could conceal you
no distance could hold you
no heart can hide you from mine
I am the beginning, I am the bitter end
I am your mother, I am not your friend.”

91

Nineteen-ninety-one
up later than I should have, again
captivated by green fairy lanterns
tracers cutting through low cloud
as pale tanks churned through sands
illuminated by towering flames
two tone night vision guided precision
celebrating glorious murders
whether eviscerated from the sky
or entombed in trenches alive
weird dreams those nights.

Hen’s Teeth & Horsefeathers

It never ceases
the turgid churn of garbage
morbid juices leaking from greasy bags
heavy with excess and prepackaged regret
filth strewn nonsense
abandoned beside the highway
or piled unto heaven itself.

Your name
scrawled jaggedly on discarded pages
concealed among crumpled reminders
other tolls to be paid
and declaration of formal surrender.

I am Caesar of this quarter-acre rubbish-heap
behold my empire of the picket fence
I am the satrap of rat-traps
overlord of the overflowing pit
I am the prince of old car parts
lord of leftovers and frozen delights
I am the scion of this scrapheap
sultan of the wanton and needless
I am king of this accursed place
and the waste rules over me.

 

Motel Two Oh Nine

Florescence flickering unevenly
etching awkward contortions
caught in the flash of relapse
our stop-motion lifelong obsession
conducting us with electrified dust
dry lightening strike
we float in the moment
sustained in suspense
we hold one another aloft
a hymn begins
fumbling for more melodious meanings
scored with sorcerous intent
bewitching us with healing lament
a dirge born from hidden depths
strung upon the lyres of heaven
crying words of angelic dread
this song becomes us as we succumb
with broken hearts and a little death.