Someone threw a Molotov cocktail
in the car lot last night;
a flame kissed treetops
and rained glass
upon the street.

A homeless man held his arms out,
eyes closed and mouth open wide,
head tilted back in the ecstasy
of it all, savoring
the raindrops of anarchy.

No one questioned their motives;
no one questioned anything,
anymore;

just went off in search
for a broom.

The next day everything
went back to normal,
and all was good.

Your name came like a ghost
in that frosted windowpane
I stood in front of;

our hands connected
with ice on our fingers,
skeletons in the winter;
cursive’s not bitter
when crafted from
our own breath,
no longer distracted with
our own death,

until the glass shattered
and pierced our faces;
created art we couldn’t
possibly start,
nonetheless end—

yet we did,

again and again
and again.

Neon signs came to replace the sun
last night, as the cars drove nowhere
and our minds drove somewhere;

the streetwalkers did not fail to appear
at the sound of change
splashing in a moving pocket;
***** like flowers in bloom,
we unearthed a dumpster rocket
and aimed for the moon,
prayed to land soon;

all the while aspiring with fire,
head tucked between thighs
as outside horns blared
to drown out practiced lies;

familiar smells like a gas cloud,
sensations of electric currents
sizzled fried brains on expired warrants;

so strong I could feel my nose hairs burn
while in revolt my stomach turned,

looking for someone, anyone
to blame,

while a million mourners yearned
for the same:

there was no one.

It seems like some
distant dream
fading away from me
into a bottle
floating at sea.

Maybe it was all
in my head;
although that doesn’t
make it fiction.

A part of me says
it never happened.
Just a hallucination,

a bad dream
fabricated
to haunt me
forever.

But when I sit here
and focus,
visualize myself
melting
into the seat,
face exploded
and spine snapped,

I remember everything.







Especially the nothing.

sinking in
an ocean of …
of everything

dark
gray, pixilated smudge
cigarette burns
on the movie screen

130 beats per minute
banging with fists
fists clenched
grasping
gasping

for
anything
other
than
this

but it’s
too
far
away

and I’m …
who the
hell knows

not here

and
maybe never
again.

Left without reason,
caught in the breeze
penetrating me;
a season for treason
discussing
the inevitable concussion
of creative repercussion.

Big bad pig man,
same sad **** plan;
it's for the audience
(we like you!)
hence the distorted sense
of a reported defense
impaled and left stale
atop a graying fence.

Trash the artistry,
erase the registry;
no active hard drive necessary.

The creeps are a lie:
it's not fine to color
outside the lines.
Remain sane in that little brain
with that structured page
to sterilize natural rage;

copy and paste with haste
until the end,
because approval of a friend
and the applause
of a predetermined cause
is all that's needed
to feel like we've succeeded.

"Safety in warmth
above the floor indoors,
where outside the cold's too bold."

Forget this united mantra,
shred your clothes and dip your toes,
and join me as a contra.

Because obscure is the cure,
while ease has always been the disease.

disrupt
the quiet tune,
erupt
yonder bloom.

I wonder
how long
we’ll wander.

It’s not a game,
but we’re winning
anyway;

must be insane
to consider us sane,

but who does?

the look in your eyes
constellates what we create,

in the valley
of star dust
and car rust,

we fell in bed
in a house
without a roof,
and hoped for rain;

oh, how we prayed.