Sunday, February 10, 2019

living in the ache of the morning

living in the ache of the morning
I think that is the title as I wake up and breakfast sizes me up
an abattoir on plate or is it my mind?

I wish to steal you away before the clock strikes twelve and america becomes the next concentration camp. my anxiety will always keep me from these feats
of daring do, maybe you already know that from the voicemails

you wore your famous blue raincoat like the most miserable weather in the whole wide world was upon you
the sky was the same grey as yr face, this city has a light problem
your chi always gave you away, you had no life to give and your corpse knew it

this of course says nothing of my corpse, or the roses I spit when I speak
thorns catch in my throat as Simon says and the walk down the green mile commences
in a bullfight, ah that’s bullshit… I ain’t papa hemingway

red splotches of blood run with the bulls in my rose tinted hangover visions
blood visions, prosecco visions, there are ghosts in the ache of the morning
rattle and hum in the pit’s throat kept intruders at bay and the natives restless

in the tantrum of late stage capitalism, we’re broke, we’re broken, we bay at endless moons
late stage elton john queen of england shock and awe mistress of mayhem a throaty bitch lays
a twenty on the bar for the biggest glass of gin you ever saw, she drinks it one gulp, beautiful

I ain’t papa hemingway, I ain’t even moms mabley, put that in your ripped stocking and smoke it motherfucker, cause I ain’t going anywhere unless you smoke me out with sage or feed me honeydew
was in Chicago the first time I had a fried egg on my cheeseburger, it was lip smacking good
as that night, as corpses, I knew it was ending, the rain and us, we were only seconds out

swore on a pack of bibles I had in the trunk for target practice and got down on my hands and knees and prayed for a reality I no longer believed in, the product of hanging by a thumbscrew
last rites are something I’ve always intended to hand back like a bad piece of fish or an explosive device with no sense of humor, same with the quarter that may get me across styx. Silent boatman or vulgar boatman, you be the judge

pulled down her brown corduroys and at her behest fucked her in the ass. Still wondering if my best friend Tony fucked her in the ass the next night while I ate egg sandwiches and farted in front of the television
lite beer means nothing when there’s a gun to your head and your doppelganger is a member of the NRA

poutine with extra gravy and suicide squads, this is life lived in fear of a moment
my routine is a suicide squad, but I hardly take myself seriously enough to pick up the phone and dial  911. If you need help, if you need help, if you need help. What if I just need cocaine?

just finished a poem called Preemie Blue and thinking J.B. is the only one who will get it
just finished a bag of gummy worms that were medicated, now I am the hot worm
the other side of the rainbow bites you every time, especially when the golden rule is up for grabs, so honor the blood feast boys and girls cause we are certainly doomed

doomed to relive all the bad bits while a new normal sits on our psyches like a half-eaten corned beef sandwich on Jewish rye , hold the pickle or a memory, I got no arms left
to wrap around anything – the last time I encircled your sun I believed I was on the cusp of greatness, since then I’ve come to tolerate my yellow bellied mediocrity that reeks of a wet mattress

I keep at it all the same, fuck if I know why or fuck if I know why not
last time I gave a fuck there was a red roof inn and a middle aged woman who really enjoyed sucking my dick or at least that’s what she said and I believed her

the last time I committed suicide I became mary prevost’s dinner
I had to look up who mary prevost is and I’m still not sure who she is or was
warm oatmeal skin with no voice and hungry dachshund

lost wiener dog amidst the sheets, your disadvantage savage, canine teeth
human teeth, I got them all in a small bag round my neck, mementos
outback alien dog chained up, it’s all in the game when you’re a croupier

alain delon’s fedora blowing in the wind, I think it’s Tuesday
the last time I copped a feel it was as much for kicks as for revenge
this bar smells like onions fried in the end of time, wish the jukebox wasn’t dead

Jason Baldinger / Charles Cicirella

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