Junkyard Dogs Eat Cars

Whiplash, my necklace broke in a car accident in a vehicle made from soft skin graft
and a voice that goes two ways, howling guttural rhythm and blues,
but the blues sounds better sung than does rage out of the pretty mouth of a gun,
hung by the trigger from a rope I fastened about my needs’ necks
and while I’m replacing the door slamming across my face with her singing in the kitchen in my head, I’m imagining that love is a beautiful thing thinking, that’s what imagination is for, turning old shit into new flowers without gardening.

The big sleep, iron steeling sickness, frozen with my ghost threading through my stitches,
drowning on a borrowed dime with a broken watch, watching the clock, waiting for god
in a hotel in the rough part of my head, where the girls stroll in high heels,
and the men slowly smoke as they wait to be dead.

A lopsided arrangement, entered into without really caring about the terms,
letting a murder of crows break bread at my table, clearing the crumbs from the silverware crashing around in my soul, forget and forgive or forget to forgive for forgetting to give a damn that every last piece of me was what I gave to you, and now I don’t want it back, keep it and eat it or breathe it like the final little wisp of smoke from the burnt remains of our auto accident.

Art Died Gasping For Air

Art Died Gasping For Air






Breathing throat’s softened, marred with blades’ razors replacing the honesty of nature

spitting faith into a jar built to hold the viscous little outcomes of the wicked, wistful labor

caught inside an act of love as it’s written before you exhale the words from your tongue

as if it was a sappy love note’s burning paper.

Tied With A Bow, Circumspect & Glistening

Something for nothing

Something for the repeat offenders

Something for the inspiration that comes out of ugly places like pearls from cracked oyster shells 

Something for the men that find gods in alleys and something for the gods that kill the men in alleys

Something to be said about wars and the men that fight the wars – the women that love the men that fight the wars –  the death of the men in the wars that is the death of all love and ultimately of the women that love the men that love the women and fight the wars without loving the wars 

Thus, something should be said for the homicide of all of this love, how quickly we dispense with our most precious things for the promise of the impossible antipathy that is the idea of honorable death 

Something for my dead grandmother’s orchid, alive for a decade without nary a pedal that has finally bloomed pink-white flowers once again

Something for fluttering hearts amidst the madness of unrequited love

Something for the mascara running down a woman’s face sucking down cheap champagne to kill the oppression of being alone

A great something for all the pain and even more for our ownership and our nurturing of our pain and our great reticence in allowing it to die, instead allowing it to maim and kill us 


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