I’m sleeping
mud seeping
crawlies on
my chapel creeping

A sunk-in well
from where I fell
I’ll never go
and never tell

Real the ropes
Pack your smokes
Chew your verses
Swallow your jokes

This mutineer
Dares to steer
Lost not lost,
a-lone premier.

Beware the Gyac’tus!
Oh you monster, oh beast!
Found crawling over mountainsides
on such uneven feet!

Watch the way it’s hobblin’
o’er rocks and hills alike.
**** now, foulest creature! Rid that-
hobblin’ from my sight!

Gone isn’t far enough,
he stoops within my head.
No hamlet could survive like this,
let’s burn him in his bed!

Forks n’ brands, fires too,
pierce heavy evening air.
Storm straight, we do, his wretched mount
to find him sleeping bare.

Be gone, oh Gyac'tus!
I howl atop its shape
A whimper leaks from his lips ‘fore
I carve across its nape.

Fear no more! Fear is dead!
Echoes proudly out the cave,
thus we flounder up the mountain,
thought victors, found us slaves.

But the mount is unkind,
spilling forks in twos, threes,
soon a crowd becomes a party,
a party ‘comes a leash,

‘til the fire burning
on the crest stands alone,
yet the only thought I think,
thunk of wine slugged at home.

Drunken dreams expose me
the vengeful mount beneath,
my careless kneecap crumbling
like cornbread at my feast.

Tumble down the mountain
rolling head, feet n’ all
'til sprawling on the ground beside
the spoils of my war.

Glimpsing 'cross its body
held down by shorter heft
I find myself an iron cast
fast ‘round his shorter left.

Donning the clever craft,
my fate turns a corner!
I crawl, on such uneven feet,
homeward in a fervor.

Triumphant from the hills,
hunger tempting Bacchus,
my hobblin’ culls an awful tune,
Beware the Gyac'tus!

Chew me, will you?
Chew me, won't you?
Wedge me 'tween two
wine-stained yahoos.
Soak my core through
scaly beast, You!

Look at me.

I've become so theatrical, lying here, drowning in oddments and drool. How long now have I rotted in the eves I've missed, ****** away paths and pavements creeping like mold over my timber skin.

To think, I could have been a Great American Novel, a Wonder, a Classic. My torso might have melted the hearts of millions, the fingers of my web might have crawled carefully down their backs, spinning - oh so suddenly - a twist into their spines, while they themselves press loving, thrilling craters into mine.

I might have swept up her posthumous time machine and his mad spiral from the clouds in the booming wood and brass of one tender-fingered soldier's Trojan triumph over death and his countrymen.

But here I am, a Janitor, an Afterthought. Sweating in my splintered coat, stabbing at wet hunks of lamb that shamelessly remind me of how Wasteful I am.

One can lose
their conscience
as quickly and carelessly
as a name or a key.

Can sea monks breathe in spirits?
Liquor keeps their pundits young,
fit to cackle at my stammer,
hazing in their seaward tongues.

Hoist a body from a barstool
and they imitate my shuffle,
nudge my toes in each direction,
once a floor becomes a puzzle.

And soon I fall headlong
between a bitter belch and blur
to the sea monks' hoots and hollers,
spitting sauce up on their fur.

But those chirping monk-men
when they've had their bit of fun,
whisk me off my splinter bed
and rouse me, one by one.

Can sea monks breathe in spirits?
Liquor keeps their pundits young,
fit to walk me through the morning
singing folk-tunes with the sun.

An old man waddles n' hobbles, snickers n' snackers up the beaten path to the back door, bony fingers beating on my splintered shield.

A snail chasing me into a shallow grave.

Run to die? Die to run?
Run to die? Die to run?

I'll spend a lifetime making up my mind.

Unsatisfied
and waiting
much too long,
my stomach growling
much too loud
for a belly full of something.
I'd tell you what if I knew,
but I don't.
I imagine if I did,
I'd be sitting around
wasting my time
with that,
instead of sitting around
wasting my time
with this.