7337

Under false auspice and ulterior motive
laden and leaden with manifest destiny
rolling around in rum soaked insurrection
bottom of the barrel, back of the shelf
last calls and final rounds
float to the top, sink to the sky
dance your way into hell.

Liquored up and burdened with prophecy
gin-joint Jesus with electric hair
spilled the beans across the street
and what lurks within a man
bile, curses and spitting shame
please don’t recall my name
when the cloud clears and the waters recede
I find myself and lose the way.

“Who wants another Fireball?”

“What are you, a fucking level ten wizard?”

“Alright Scrunch, I think you’ve had enough.”

Iron Vines

Wrought in the intricacies of iron
obscure pattern frozen in growth
broad-leaf flares on the twisting vine
woven together with oiled wire
metal twisted into organic life
rusting under the open sky
a lattice of gratitude
a ladder of trust
bound with forge feathered wings
brass-plumed in the setting sun.

Semantic Satiation

I thought I had raised Babylon
over one terrible night
the scars on my palms
hammer and tongs
my mouth full of mortar
brick-dust breath
I fumble in a whiskey-dark fog
fugue clogged synapses
awakening and becoming aware
that I couldn’t build a garden shed.

I thought I had composed a symphony
a cascade of chords and inner harmonies
woven into movements of transcendence
aural incandescence
sonic revelations
three minutes of four beats and a voice
starting with a note… What note?
I’ve lost the key, the time, the words
my guitar seems built of lead
my hands stiff and mute
I have a string of nothing and a stolen riff
delete it I guess
my sorry fucking head.

I thought I had created something
made something worthy
yet I behold a palace of nonsense
and lame poetry.

Snake Oil Clearance Sale

Home decorated like a ship wreck
burrowed into a compost heap of paper
digits tapping out the sacred triangle
traced with muscle memory electricity
patterns carved in neural pathways
messages written with molasses ink
sticky fingers
sweet nothing.

Time transforms sentiment into sediment
grinding teeth like millstones on cement
frozen and fossilizing where I stand
bones of crystal glass in metal hands
quaking and tectonic chrome plating
horror in the depths of the kitchen sink.

(Don’t impede this millipede
he has so many steps to take
and although your race is run
he has a million more today.)

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.