my arm is nothing more than an extension of my soul,
stretched parabola forming a straight line
towards heaven.
I stand on my soapbox with a sermon dangling
from my lips, this tired old street corner
this tired old man giving the world what it wants.
I am enlisted.
I am the bubble hidden deep
inside the bone.
I am the beekeeper creating a brand new colony,
stung by his own pride.

here, brother, listen:

walk with me while I tell you about the
accubation of life
and all of it's little lovers,
those tiny frail things so easily forgotten.
my tongue is nothing more than an extension of my mind,
soft, flattened, delightful
attracted to flavor.

a million spiders bred a million more,
and still their webs spread empty between the trees.

this is the way God works.

earthquakes,
tsunamis,
libraries engulfed in flames,
over-dosed artists,
a genius child sold into slavery.

we all become what we already are:
gentle creatures abacinated by society
fenced in and cornered by evil dreams.
we thrash in our sleep,
we wake violently,
we burst onto the scene like lions
from another planet,
hungry, oh so wild and hungry.

this is the way We work.

the fluorescent light, shaped like memory
tries hard to stay on, to be of use
in the garage
in the attic
in the kitchen.
the rest of this town just stays off-
a stage behind a curtain, a door removed from its hinges.
and the people dancing on the other end
are orphans in the open, abandoned and excited-
and I am in love with weekend democracy.

moving on..

her face is red like cancer,
I pretend not to notice
but burst like diamonds from the mine
and now her secret is aggressive
and chases me through the acid baths
and death camps of Baghdad.
we are at war.
we are bullets inside a terrible machine.
we are deus ex machina.

moving on..

once you were beautiful,
undrugged and free of molestation. God still rode on
training wheels and pretty prayers-
gee baby, ya remember the days?
a youthful version before the *******,
before the black Iris grew,
before the sparks turned blue.
O soft poison. O innocent spew,
I love you.

while I type this poem
a president speaks to his troops
behind me on the TV
wearing the same bomber jacket
the president before him wore,
saying the same **** things to the same ol' ears
about the same **** guns and the same ol' wars.
he makes promises he can't keep,
while I make another ***** tonic
that I intend to drink.

and to think,
I'm the one considering therapy.