Friday, February 7, 2014

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.