Jul. 14th, 2015

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from The Hitchhiker

I move off toward the street.
My feet press down in it,
familiar with the hot soft asphalt
that caresses them.
The sun slips down into its cradle behind the mountains
and it is hot, hotter than ever
and I like it.
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Day 1:
We tear ourselves down atom by atom,
til electron and positron,
we become our own transcendent annihilation.


Day 2:
A nightlight in the shape of a bear
burns in the center of my darkness.
It's clear acrylic and inside, a blue bulb
casts a pale blue light in the room,
where I lie awake,
my twelve-year-old insomnia,
a warning of future sleepless nights.


Day 3:
The wharf has a tight deep vagina of water
and I'm going to fuck it until it novas,
just to let everybody see
how I cut through life like a diamond
in a sack of glass, with no regrets


Day 4:
I'm burning from the bottom up,
a bottle of flesh,
kicked across the hardwood years.
I pass gin and excuses from hand to mouth,
but it's me. It's me.
I'm the one dirty habit
I just can't break.


Day 5:
Dawn had come to the village
with more killing on its mind.
I heard screams and pleas for mercy,
then I realized those sounds were inside me.
They would never leave.
Now I am always talking to the dead.


Day 6:
I always say
it aint a shame;
it's crime
and thank God somebody elese
is paying.
This time.


Day 7:
If I'm anywhere, I'm still trapped
in the palace of lies,
where I'm clothed in illusion
and fed confusion with a spoon.
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Day 8:
We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You tough my knees with your blue fingers..
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.


Day 9:
Death, Bobby, hit me
like the flat of a hand.
Imagine you are made of crystal
and someone ice picks you
and you shatter,
all your cells coming
almost to despair
it is so good.


Day 10:
Now when he hears the sound of voices,
he growls, covers the bones quickly
and hides beneath the burned-out shell of a car
until they fade
like all the voices that once made us family,
but could not save us from our destiny.


Day 11:
Come on, baby, lay me down on my back.
Pretend you don't owe me a thing
and maybe we'll roll out of here,
leaving the past stacked up behind us;
old newspapers nobody's ever got to read again.


Day 12:
I enter your room,with my purple face moist from excitement.
The black straw basket I carry
in my yellow arms cracks softly,
in tune with the brittle snap of my blue legs,
as I sneak to your bed.


Day 13:
Beside the river, I stop the wagon,
loaded with the plague dead
and have a drink.
I fill my mouth and swallow slowly,
then climb back into my seat.
The old horse drops one turd, another.
Corpses, I give you these flowers.


Day 14:
I move off toward the street.
My feet press down in it,
familiar with the hot soft asphalt
that caresses them.
The sun slips down into its cradle behind the mountains
and it is hot, hotter than ever
and I like it.
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