Thursday, November 20, 2008

Purging the Thick Sticky American Plight

It's been weeks since I've watched the explosions
plume into petals, blooming crimson and pears
like soft spears, cape and muster
this cup of sour mash whiskey
that holds glaciers cracked and hollow,
shell-like frozen cases,
pools of bitter dandelion yellow swirls
fall down past my tongue, until my spine cracks
and I wish I was elsewhere.
Too coherent for a night like this,
and here I am writing.
Typical.
I need a gun, and some sultry music.
Pretend we were back in the hallway,
trading looks, maybe morals.
Too late, for I am already molded
into a steel that only bends in the backseat.

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