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
1/31/19
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