A Moth

All checked in,
at the “Bates Motel” of my subconscious

Stumbling drunk,
heavy with bags of sorrow

A moth, bangs against the walls,
looking for an escape

Waiting for the Train

Got caught drinking on the train platform.

photo by hungrybison

While pissing in a wide arch,
two lobos approached.
Bam!
Down she went,
kinda smooth,
wet from the urine.

The Hunter

Cloaked in a faded huntin’ coat,
fire blazes
from the tips of his fingers,
flames shoot out of his asshole.

Pure evil.

His stench wakes the wet dogs sleeping in the alley,
makes the flies dance and the
maggots go crazy.

But he flys on golden wings,
right up to the Sun and back.
Angels sigh, 
trumpets sound,
the blind see,
the crippled kids run in the street.

Love flows down
his chin,
down his greasy chest,
onto the earth,
creating a shimmering river
where all the sinners swim.

Patty, The Librarian

I once read a book about the Devil,
it set my hands on fire.

The others at the library 
were all impressed,
except for Patty,
the librarian,
she went home sick that day.

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.

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. 

Injun Incorporated

Lies sold as ceremony,

photo by hungrybison

“traditions” dreamt up by white men in suits,
sold prepackaged,

and branded,
to “new age injuns”.

Salvation,

like fuck,

is but a word.

Souls piled high,
like the bones and skulls gathered from the prairie.
Piled high,
to be ground into powder.

Chickens

On his twelfth birthday,

photo by hungrybison

in a damp wind,
under swollen clouds,
and magpie calls,
an innocent universe faded away
sharply,
accompanied by the sound
of steel striking wood.

Tears streaming down a young man’s face,
they refused to fall.

Headless,
they continued running.