I’ve been to this America the oil slick
the armadillo shotgun shells the fog.
I’ve stood beside this holy mess of trees,
knelt open-shirted in the rain, arms out,
the tires melted to the crumbled road.
Much like a backstreet video or something else,
the desert sky Crayola blue above,
and how I hated all of it, the kids
who weren’t stuck using RoseArt crap,
the trapper keepers that I never had.
Digress: repeatedly in bumpy planes
I’ve stonefaced through the almost dieds,
smoked python cigarettes in smoke-free rooms,
thought this was an okay last thing to do.
It’s clearing up now where I am,
two days of rain in central PA
(pronounce that like the Yearling, thanks).
I haven’t had a solid shit in days
but this is now my lot in life.
So beautiful the ex-wife men in khaki shorts
beerdrinking in the hotel bar, so long
the legs of poolside antelope and soccer teams.
I want to take a bite of everything
before I have to go. I want to take
a bite of you and all the perfect graves
that line the toothy hill from here to there.
We follow from the virus, hot and sweet and too much on our breath.
The green disgusting light is what we have been promised
and I’m waiting for it with a can of pringles cautiously removed
from a dry dock minibar, replaced with equal weight of stubble, blood and oats.
How many nights in shitty rooms is it supposed to take
before I join the angels, complimentary wine and eyelid wings on floors
where more of this is visible, this comprehensive mess?
I ask at registration and am told: tomorrow we will all be dead;
late checkouts are available. I fish the lemon slices out
from where the lobby water tank has captured them
and place them on my eyes. We all go free into the blinding night.
The staircase is a snake to where
regret is eating its own tail
and all the confit is the only thing
I can remember how to say
besides merci. So anyway
last night they blew the tower up
and then I watched a police on a bike
ride circles round a monument
much older than itself. Tonight I sweep
my cigarette butts to the street
and drink campari in a little glass
tomorrow doesn’t need to know about
or come for all I care as long
as there is still some butter left
inside the dish when I get home.
The first symptom of alcoholism
is google searching the first symptom of alcoholism.
It takes four limes to quiet down
the scratching in my brain, in order:
all of them with names like elder gods.
its thursday im drunk off vieux carres + im listening to mellon collie + the infinite sadness + if you have a problem with this fuck you
I planted thorns
this weekend made
a sine wave of my blood
across the grass
across the pigeon bones
and mud in quaking throats:
me every single time.
The next night there were sirens
and I threw myself across the hood
so that he wouldn’t leave, but anyway
the drawing of the cityscape
was still inside the trunk, its homemade frame
no match for what would happen next.
The which I don’t remember dog
was barking static down the modem line:
so 1995 I guess. One day I had a brother
and his name and everything
that came to pass between us
would be living proof the proverbs lie:
there never is there never was a way.
I’m in the forest with a loaf of bread
and trying to determine why
my throat is killing me. I haven’t seen the sun
like this since I was maybe younger by a year.
Five thousand generations’ worth of hands
have shaped what I am tearing off in chunks
and it will always be this way, just less.
Each minute is a minute I
will never have again and this is one
that I will spend with birds I cannot name.