All I see are demons
in this apocalyptic season
when everyone with a grievance
pledges allegiance
to those in agreement
of fear of the opposition
deserving paranoid treatment
for a thing called collision.

I live in fear of their numbers
I fear the heights of their hunger
I fear they'll eternalize my slumber
not wanting to go under
I sit there and wonder
how to tear asunder
nightmarish hunters.

This thunderstick granted to me
for my John Wick fantasy
lays in my hands handily
fingers hugging the trigger
ignoring the touch of skin
it makes me feel bigger
than playing the violin.

I need guns because the other side has them
trading players like they're Udonis Haslem
feeling like the metallic version of Aslan
because of the armament in my safe
connecting me to my venom
protecting me from the other's ways
with a second **** in my denim.

I'm afraid of the angry mob
to which I've globbed on
pitchforks in hand
fingers hugging the trigger
of supply and demand
the rich get richer.

I heard on the news
there is a cream cheese shortage
now I want cream cheese

I can still remember going to school
when it was raining
morphing into a mule
for things draining
from the life I thought I would rule
it's enflaming
all of this taming
with no one to save me
when the student meets master
whose whip is faster
than the policeman's blaster
protecting their interests
on the command of corrupt arbiters
so I can't make up the difference
when their money muscles are bigger.

They turn my peers into overlords
I can smell the overtone
of the rear odor grown
living in my motor home
parked at my job
the ark of the lost
heartless and tossed
friends of the frost
counting the cost
of commodity crops
guarded by cops
so I must pay the right price
or get filleted in a knife fight
by members of a different ark
their difference is stark
like they're the FARC
from Jurassic Park.

We once went to school together
until we were unspooled forever
diverging cultures sever
our tumultuous tethers
until we're rats racing
to the flats facing
the cliff casing
of a bullet blazing
through rodents raging
while automatically aging
in a game not worth saving
until our grave is paving
so the rats contract rabies
and try to enslave me
through shameless shaming
their nameless maiming
is grating gravely.

Their laugh of wit
a crack of whip
they slap I slip
in their pool of spit
which is fuel for grit
to not take their ****
until they break my hip
with the quake of work
I'm too raked and hurt
to spank their skirts
so I bank my irks
for another day
when I want to play.

The days continue to pass
as they misuse my ***
their issues last
through the time elapse
I can't seem to grasp
my life from their clutches
I tightrope with crutches
until I break for my lunches
or break from the punches
of a million miniscule crunches.

They break me in
they break me down
I can't hear any hymns
over factory sounds
I haven't been to the gym
since I developed this limp
being their gimp
getting ****** on the regular
my only communication is cellular
feeling so molecular
kicking for a living like Shane Lechler.

I look at the analogue clock
sitting next to my Econolodge cot
to see this is all the time I got
getting high smoking ***
pretending I'm something I'm not
which is happy
childhood friends outlap me
all the while laughing
about old jokes from school
like forgotten jewels
carried by a beaten mule
working for wool
so it can dress like a sheep
so it can get some sleep
to forget the regrets it's reaped.

They tell us to see the sun in the winter
get your gun to get your dinner
there's only one who can be winner
so have fun as a sinner.

A ******* bullpit
echoes the bully pulpit
cracking a bullwhip
as a cruel gift.

There's a royal decree
in the soil we seed
wearing oily greaves
we boil and bleed.

The pinniped's frigid bed
dwindled when the cynic said
his withered glen is more important than
the arctic shed and hearts that bled.

The highlands seem endearing
when islands are disappearing
and the godmen are hearing
no reasons to be weary.

Some run to the hills
some run to the pills
others turn to the thrill
of the blood we spill.

Our only answer is running
from our controller's cunning
it's almost like they're hunting
by not solving this one thing.

I need my employer
more than they need me
but our employers need us
way more than we need them.

Driving to bible study past Turfway Park
solitary stables line the road
horses fill them—broken—made to go faster
my car smells like cigarettes and sounds like Slayer
and is parked on its own.
A building next to the church is where we gather
once used to house missionaries, it has become our tent of meeting
we are watching a video of Ravi Zacharias talking for 40 minutes
received by heads planted on hands and dormant coughs
listening to him arrive to the conclusion
that homosexuals can't be proper Christians.

Having grown up in Kentucky, this isn't an unusual sentiment to hear
I used to not be gay or a Christian
internalizing homophobia: I told myself I didn't want to be part of their gay little club
internalizing ******: I ignored that which hurt me on a fundamental level
I lived like that for a while
—thinking I'd die like that
but once I could accept one, I could accept the other
—and accept myself.

Talking in circles in this square room
I used to think only bigots spoke like this
but these people have love in their hearts
Ravi Zacharias has love in his heart
they're just trying to guide people to the most direct route to Jesus
...which they say is a straight line.
Our circular saw conversation splits us down the middle
about whether militarism or hedonism caused Rome's downfall
about whether humanity dictates nature or is a part of it
about whether homosexuality is inherently harmful or not
we learn a lot about each other through this process.

Driving home on a winter night
I ponder whether I'm walking Jesus' path—am I living an examined life?
I want to make it about them—who are they to judge me?
But it's more about my relationship with myself and God
I take a half smoked bowl out of my center console and light it up
watching an entire city ride my *** in the rear view mirror
their headlights are blinding
so I turn my mirrors away.

My car wanders while I wonder
where I belong in the icy bluegrass
driving between dichotomies
directing my driveway deviation
finding peace in a portal to presence
noticing how the bare trees shoot up from the ground like
lightning bolts shocking a sky that rebukes their entry with turbulence
the trees do not belong to the sky or the ground—they keep reaching for both
the tips of desperate branches scrape freedom while their roots cling to earth for stability.

The road gets really narrow out where I live
so I drive down the middle of the blacktop
realizing that these are minds I can change
realizing something about acting locally
realizing the extent compartmentalization obfuscates love and hate
realizing the responsibility placed on me to change these people—and let them change me
the road that connects all driveways enters mine as well
as I realize I've finally arrived home.

You were more than a friend
you were more than a roommate
you were more than a trend
you were too great
you were more than more
core to core
we explored
and I want more.