Locked from the top
is a Tuesday night rockstar
cut on the weeds and steam
off of cars speeding by. Tearing off the graceful bonds
called bone sweet
carving flesh pulp
strange and the blood
candy cane ruby red
to the grass bedding below.
Fast lane puppets
caught at lights six miles later. Five year old wails
about God pimping coke addicts with
gloves on,
gloves off,
pounding on asphalt doors
hiding camel toe shots--it's raining inside. Her pants are down
in the gutter--scene on TV, reality on fire.
Living in tail lights
till the red blushes
at the cute landlord watching the gore
past the building dishes and shot glass
eyes burned out of lost friends
from staring at blown bulbs.
Mumbling nirvana crawling like beetles
from tripping lungs
taking the same bible spine
away from yesterday. The junk that tickles,
makes the moon spin,
mad women dance
in the bankrupt birth
of humid H-bombs.
Shovels scoop up gravy
for wood chippers, the springs of History
foaming at the mouth,
shredded to delicate words such as 'fault'
'blame', 'regret'.
The stoop kids play card games as the sirens wail
and another turn passes.