To Kill a Man

I could kill a man,
I could bring myself to do it,
but I’m confident I could not.
I could not bring myself to do it,
I could not kill a man.

The Butterflies’ Graveyard

The voices whisper,
like the sound of butterfly wings,
swept up in a storm.

Hushed,
the fear of being too loud,
the sound of thousands,
shaking, in silence,
murmuring folk,
half the earth blown away.

Intoxicated,
I pour red wine upon white wings,
crush hues of yellow between my palms,
paint my face in colored dust,
revile in death,
a beauty undiminished.

Senseless, upon the sod,
emblazoned,
my breath disturbs their stillness.

The legions,
flightless on their own,
live once more,
if only in illusion.

Oblivion their realm,
Clothed in butterfly wings,

I have become their King.

Angels

Don’t poke him with a stick,

nor deny his sister.

photo by hungrybison

 

Beware those beyond the woods,
don’t go near them,
they will dump you into the mud by the river’s edge,
they will return to scatter your bones,
they’re angels.

Darken your homes,
mark your thresholds
with a wide brush,
He’s coming.

The Black Dog (Depression 2)

Three am,

all I have is myself,

and the black dog,

that stares at me,

just inches from my face.

“You’re cursed, like all of them”, the dog tells me.

“Sing me some blues, about the mania, your bed, the mojo bag.”

The dog just loves the blues.

“There’s a song boiling inside you,

but your voice is shot,

and your hand too slow.

so write it all down as a poem,

and give up.”,

the dog growls.

The Light

I know a woman who said her son,

photo by hungrybison

who died, came visiting her.
He came as a silent ball of light and drifted around her trailer.

She became angry at the light,
“goddamnit boy, why did you never came to see me when you were livin’?”
She told it to go away, and it did.

Bulls at the Gate

Down the dirt road
a gypsy girl,
drinks plum wine,
and envisions
that amazing chromed ’58.

A mind movie,
pornographic.

Horn rimmed bucks,
crewcut gods,
with weapons sheathed in denim.

Holding back the bulls at the gate,

they suckled at her perfumed breasts.

One bolted,
she cooed “Boy, I want to live like that.”
“Wild!”

The Starlet

She is a big star down there in the gas station parking lot.

The headlights from the pickups,

 lowriders,

 minivans,

Harleys,

rice burners,

ratrods,

they all shine on her as they creep past,

ever so slowly.

Bugs whirl above her in the bright light,

 as she dances,

 under the premium unleaded pump sign.

Tight fitting jeans,

black high-heeled silver toed cowgirl boots,
even if you don’t like it,

you still get your monies’ worth.

 

Cracked Dishes

As I pull the plates out of the soapy water,
I notice that like everything in my life they are cracked. 

Held together enough to be functional but if I dare pop one in the oven or wipe it too hard with a rag, it’s sure to break.

I had a full set of uncracked dishes when I was younger.
They were replaced because my wife, at the time thought they were ugly.
She replaced them with prettier plates, but they left when she did.

 I bought a box of cheap motherfuckers at Kmart under a blue light to replace the ones she replaced. 
I pushed an overweight woman out of the way to get this coveted set. 

I’ve had them for about three years now, all  are fucking cracked. 

Sunday mornin’

Do not spend too much time at places where people wear name tags.

photo by hungrybison

It is like a hole in their chests,
where their soul seeps out
like the watery, blood from a wound.

The story goes on,
Do not spend too much time in the “house of God”.
The house itself is fine,
It is the entertainment that wrecks you, damages you like a Nebraskan hailstorm.
Stage left,
the heavenly host, silent.
Stage right, a preacher in spasms,
words and spittle fired from his wax shined face,
“Amazing Grace!”
In God’s love,
you’re all  included,
one and all,
together, as one,
and
on an individual bases,
separately,
alone,
together again,
together then  alone,
lonely.
Lonely as
dirty shirts,
waiting,
for washing,
waiting,
for a woman’s hands,
skin like suede.

Still waiting.

A half a bottle of scotch to douce
a fire trail,
and I got to hang out with Hank Williams Sr and Jesus.

Lone Star

Kerosene breathed

photo by hungrybison

dippin’, spittin’
mother fucker
armed with long cut,
two tins.

Country boy logic
smoke and mirror bravado
to fascinate big assed women on mechanical bulls.

The wide hipped buckle bunny
with  brown betty eyes
and a wet-t-shirt sophistication
conjured with a penetrating tounge
an acidic rain
which soaked
the half acre of paradise
between the calluses
on my hands
and my erection.

The girl with the duct tapped mouth made me smile.

We started a fire out in the middle of the road.
A windswept cinder
burnt a hole in her dress.

She poured Lone Star on me
and I pissed on her
till it was extinguished.