the indulgence.

It’s a turbulent nausea

washing over the skin,

as if drowning and unable to swim,

in a stagnate pool of cigarette water.

     

The air outside is a sickly wet

convulsion of humidity that gets inside a person

in a slow creeping fashion.

The barflies

rested their wings

on greasy barstools.

     

Each counting off the days by

the amount of distilled liquid

floating in their skulls

         

I cursed them out and

told them they were dead already,

 just too stupid to bury themselves.

              

The impulse was strong,

I had to get out,

seek alternative belief systems

that have an opened bar

and quiet drunks.

The road is a wicked succubus

that twists and writhes in

delirious gyrating rhythms,

she’s in a sexually orgasmic

epilepsy against the protests

of a digestive system in vertigo.

My feet catch a grown man,

he’s crying over his infant whose stomach

is starting to swell from malnutrition.

    

A meal is the new Holy Grail.

The golden calf has died

on the streets of America.

When nothing is left, can you still believe in Jesus?

Snake dancing Christian fundamentalists make

their way around me and this man.

     

These righteous worm creatures

slither from street to street

establishing religious

franchises in mini-malls.

          

They step over the child gasping for air.

These prosthetic angel’s,

who view me, this man,

and his dying child as vermin

feeding on the rotting carcass of the

golden calf that they pretend

is still alive.

The sickness of the drink passes

but the perverse contamination

clings to my skin.

     

How much were we promised,

while we banged on the doors of gods

demanding answers,

justifications, and understanding?

          

While others of our own kind

were cutting away pieces

of our souls from our backs.

Selling the pieces as trinkets to those who

didn’t even have the

courage to step up to the door and knock.

Groping the final few steps to the house,

hoping that I haven’t lost my keys, yet again.

     

A shirtless Uncle Sam is sitting on the porch,

his flesh hangs in sheets from the bone.

He’s got a beer for me and one for him, he’s waiting.

Giving up on everything

else around him,

and waiting for the dream,

himself and me to fade away.

dead letters for living people