Scatting Destruction Psycho-Babble Blues

Exactly! yes.

it's that cholic choke

slipping through the vents

creeping over warped and crooked wood,

slinking through cracks,

waits at breathing bedside.

The chill.

Walk inside, close the door.

A slow turn and the world explodes--atom bombs,

phones off the hook, blaring alarm clocks

caught off guard.

I gather up the family of voices in my head.

"Duck and cover," morning fire billowing into mushroom-clouds later in the day,

cool down to a glowing Armageddon by Tuesday evening,

98% chance of Nagasaki.

After-shock echoes are the worst.

Clang!

Exploding world of skull,

eyes turn lava.

"All is lost." That's a lie. Surely, not everything,

yes, everything, and don't call me Shirley.

The whole foundation,

this time those achy-breaky bastards

blew the chicken coop to smithereens!

Two colored tacks on the wall and one small string connector,

less than two inches long,

not even 200 miles and almost always home.

And you thought you had legs to run.

A flash.

Zeus sits drunk and prostrate and sidelined

in a tumbledown chariot,

salivating,

giggling at incredulous cameras.

Watery blinking of teary-eyed history--still blind,

vision creeps back like spent camels from Mecca journeys.

Cadavered cities and corpsed towns. Fire lakes

and melted fish.

History is elliptical.

History, I don't understand.

History looks angry through a peephole.

I envy gods and women, salt shakers and

all life-makers.

All creation,

from taking a shit to a barroom glow and

late night strangering.

Spin stories spin. Make my web grow strong.

Tie up my characters, my parents, my brothers

to Salem stakes,

lash into the blowing smoke,

strike hard.

Faultless inheritance and a million albatross whispers hiding—

I'm in no mood to seek tonight.

Not me, not me, not me, no.

Skeleton eyes and simpering,

eyes bore me, burn me, roast me, turn me,

saber tooth oblivion in this corner on all fours growling,

slobbering, vindictive and venerable

and wrong about this one, friend.

Dead-fucking-wrong.

I'm in the other corner with

shoes many sizes small,

I'd like to, because they tell me it'd be nice and

take one for the team and all that.

And it would be, I guess.

Tea would be nice, too, Sleep.

I'm hot and tired, feet calloused, crowded, squashed.

One more mile is just too goddamn far tonight.

Two is out of the question, but I’ll try to walk a mile.

A mile for each and every undone victim,

a million balls of yarn,

lapping at the small of my back,

biting out fleshy Achilles-quarters,

hedging me in.

Shout: "Sin! Sin! Sin!"

Witch hunt,

endless and quenchless.

Tangled.

Think coffee cup and

silver curiousity

from Italy. Imported.

I boil the grog and fill me with that

bitter blackness.

I deserve it. Yes, I know I deserve it.

It's only fair, really.