Postmortem, Post modern

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I was once buried

in the cemetery at the top of the hill

but erosion has wiped away fallen comrades,

and through the general disintegration of time

Neither I, nor my headstone is worthy

of my Terra sanctuary.

They gathered around my grave

a site of Carnival, the beers passed around the tombstone.

Old friends pay their respect by day,

and the teens know how to tango

in the early morning

dancing from headstone to headstone

sunrise spotlight on macabre stage.

Now even the vandals don’t come around anymore.

The house cat, bronze iris and black pawed,

traces it’s way around my burying ground

The senorita, margarita in painted face,

hold my holiest of days

and the children tire of my wandering fingers

who knew the body

would be the vehicle

ensnared and tangled

caught in eternal flame

to imprison their manifestation

to imprison the soul.

Though I was never baptized I have known the ceilings of heaven

though I’ve committed no great sin

I know the delusions of hell

They don’t tell you that it’s in the air

just under our noses

where we couldn’t possibly have seen it

 we couldn’t have guessed

The man in the Ghost.

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The leaves billowed from the heavens, a roasted brown or Sunkist yellow. Mixed into the mess is the liter of the ages; a pattern, a rhythm, a song of color against dismal grey concrete. I pass the man with the tenderized face, jeans with holes and a twisted limp. But he smiles, teeth like termites. And though he smiles, later he won’t. And though he greets me with a kind face now, later he won’t. We know this, we know the binary of the demons and the angels. It remains unacknowledged, but the distance is respected.

Killing For Revelation

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There are holes in the Ziploc bag.

Snow coated.

Breaks in the lines,

Sparking electrical wires

Melting alpine peaks

And itchy noses

Cut with methamphetamine

And the surgeon’s

Favorite razor.

The poets are scratching,

Shitting poetry

Bearing teeth

And grinding needles

In mildew corners

“Shit stings brother”

In that lavender pink

Codeine sky

The sweet thick stink

And an oasis of empties

Christ on the cross faded nausea

The Greatest.

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Flatulent rump
Hanging on a cross

Like Christ himself,

They do something different

In the second coming
Equity

Brotherhood

Expelled

For a more

Efficient

Means of con(power)trol
From under the bridge

With a child’s head and hands

But all of the walls

And the molestation through time

Won’t make him a bigger man

Accumulation

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Fish eyed

stoic reflections.

A little wired

Little crazy.

Wilted ass flower,

Chatted furs

manage to misunderstand.

They drugged Jesus,

The Son

Nauseous with nothing to nibble,

Nothing

 

Far from original sin

Smoking on senile hand rolled slugs

Racing past 

Settling insectile faces

Behind sterile windshield

I need these antithetics

To get through the day

 

The list travels through L.A.

And Tokyo

Coilng around the world

Knotted ball of twine

Each thread the next scroll

Of my prescription

Of prick the fingers,

Make him bleed,

painkillers

 

They whisper it,

Hiding behind sweaty palms

As I stumble to the curb

“DRUG ADDICT”

“HAGGARD DRUNK”

“RAPIST OF THE SOUL”

the roach that go away

 

The sky is stained with exhaust

The strip with buds

Accomplices

In my land

Two layers closer to hell.

Dangerous Naivety

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Skipped drinking
Never could find a seat
At the bar
Skipped driving
Crashing everyone else’s
Car
The wrists barbed wire
Barbarous world
Convict the girls
If I grow tired
For the male empire
Masculine empire

If I fall
Just look away
Feel the shame
All damned day

If I break
Cherish what’s at stake
Don’t forget to take
What is made
Can’t forget to get paid
The shaking hand staid
Shooting up in the terminal
Flight delayed
Addictions relayed

The children crowd in suburban street
Plastic fork paper plate
Knights of the round table
The soft water burns the pores on my face

I love you most
Ensnared in your curls
The span of your Arms
And the world In Between
The cold sweats of hell
And the burning of thighs parted

Wide eyed

When the child asks,

Why must the dresses burn

And why must a love of literature

Turn me and my agency

To kindling?

Or any curiosity of a child

Wriggling beneath the surface

Just as entitled to the answers

As yourself.
It makes me nauseous too
The way they turn away
Disappointed

Like a disease
The gangrene up her arm
Severed above the elbow
To keep from spreading

Keep very still
Maybe they won’t see
The little creatures
Passing knock knock jokes
At the front of the bus
Their small signs of admiration
Their shadowed affection
Spreads like hellfire

A pleasure to the eye
But nothing “beautiful”
The words buzz like
Time
You get lost in a story
No
A government document
Pit filled, unedited dribble
Only to find you’re dissatisfied
When it ends
Looking back
At the camps
Fondly