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.
