we are not allowed hospitals;
drunk superior specialists tucked
into the ever puckering noplace
only care if you are about to die.
so, on death:
my own consumption may not lead me
to perilous ends but
i must long for the sawtooth of freedom
or i shall indeed perish
under the structures of demonstrative
i hear the old wooded countryside
can heal these wounds and
could lead us from barstools to a real peace and quiet
surrounded by the still energy of earth
that seems to tell us
what is wrong.
or maybe it is saying
i am wrong.
there are stomach pains that are not my own;
worms gather on the sidewalk
pulled up from the rain
while i pick you up
at the hospital gate
while the night wind blows in
a mighty October like
grubs morphing into beetles seeking
full enlightenment under the
eternal Egyptian sunset.
the city lights ooze and glow in our suburban sky
they produce dark shrouds
where we stain black pavement with fire
squishing a burning mass of cigarette butts straight down
beyond the sick city sewer systems
still full of the infinite excrement of rats and bums
our trash burrows deeper finally laying at rest
in the molten heart of the earth
which swells the same way as my own molten heart
in the anxiety of arguments.
i flee for i fear the beast of heavy, uncoordinated conversation
will strike me dumb with its confounding teeth
and i will have nothing to say.
inside the bar i find no brotherhood in the worn souls of my friends.
only the mad dash into bubbly misery lights their unfocused eyes
to see that too often we take aim
with the absence of precision on identical targets.
blind with instinct, we fall into a sexual jungle;
madness undermines our sacred bond
while poison darts swell in clusters
stabbing into the strangling snake
of personal tension.
this city contains no peace.
my entirety fills with the urges of man and
i tilt my head for a drink to find the ceiling fold
lower over the hobbling indignation toward the company i keep.
the jungle enters begrudgingly,
violently surrounding every muscle flirtation
with moist air of pestilence that enters my lungs
i breathe heavily and dismiss the intricate sadness
of your corruption.
i watch Jack make a move into unsure deliverance
hungry for a better fix than the jungle can offer.
as for me, i've done nothing
but not out of waiting.
all out of pigeon-toed sickness
steering my ghost ship heart
to a land of new hopes.
i prolong the undefined stealth in words that await me;
let me through the gates of unknown flesh
for i too have been hungry in this jungle.
every raging lioness casts a smokescreen
of sultry scents and the snake looms in
hissing sin after sin after mother earthly sin
but the spin of the room retracts everything heavenly:
the ghost of the jungle looms near
and with every unholy muttering
the old growling elephant
speaks this riddle:
"but for who does time pass
in the night, the same
as the day and
whatever deeds lay done are done
as we say our last holy word
and drift into bed
what slumbery dreams
will be nightmares instead?"
my eyelids peel back and
i seem to find clarity in morning.
curse this tired body, these aches are my own.
what dreams i've known
are the apparitions of the autumn wind
and i sit a rotten king
in my land of fear.