L'ultimo Saluto

Nuclear sunrise

ignites the western sky.

      Fly away to Jericho,

and

            fire, fire, fire away!

.

Domesticity.

      Non-profits

      neutralize neurons.

Now,

            fire, fire, fire away!

.

White flag warrior.

      - a man of conviction

      - convicted under false flags.

Black flags on

            fire, fire, fire away!

.

Martyr me.

If the sea’s my grave

      I die with my city,

My country.

            Fire, fire, fire away!

.

Hoist the sails;

bum rush the Poesidon.

      Take back the tide

and

            fire, fire, fire away!

I once had the Midas touch,

far before

            the plastic revolution,

long before 

            bank loans and mortgage brokers, 

in a day 

            when a life of luxury

                  did not depend on social welfare,

before

            altruism outweighed the world

on the shoulders of Atlas.

Another eagle-eye,

            Google earth,

Hubble telescopic point of view,

.

zoomed in on formulaic ant farm factories

            hiding in the sand

- scorpion soaking in sun,

.

stalking, stealing,

springing up from the earth

to face the predator eye-to-eye.

Photographs of orphans in various settings

dance on the walls of a Crystal Palace.

After all, 

what better way to celebrate riches

            than to gaze on others misfortune.

.

The sweatshops don’t run themselves.

And if they did, I doubt they’d house such harsh conditions.

Musky homophobic pheromones 

            motivate and lubricate

the formulaic ant farm factory 

.

- forget about making it home for dinner,

or in time to kiss your kids goodnight,

            or fuck your wife

                        so tonight she’ll diddle herself

and think about your honeymoon.

You know…that moment

            when the fat kid shows up at a party,

when you’re like, “oh fuck!

is that bag of Doritos’s gonna be enough?”

            It usually just goes downhill from there.
.

Three excited pups nip at everyone’s ankles as they play drinking games,

            but no one thinks that maybe they’re just thirsty.

So instead, they just lock them in the spare bedroom

and act surprised when the house starts to smell like shit.
.
Then, there’s that one girl

who flirts with every guy at the party

- not because she likes them

- not even because she’s a whore.

- just because her last boyfriend date raped her in that same shitty spare bedroom.

            She doesn’t know any other love.
.

But where do all the cigarettes go?

Every time you need one, the guy outside with you is down to his last drag…

until the next time you both walk outside and he Houdini’s a cowboy killer

            and tells you that he bummed it off the dude that passed out early.
.

That other girl (not the flirt)

gives you a wink and you know it’s on.

Except, that asshole passed out early in the bed,

so you sneak into the laundry room

and start the dryer to cover up her moans.

But really it just hides her laughter when she looks down and asks,

                        “Is that gum?”
.

Spilled drinks, unattended,

            soak into that sturdy red oak dining set.

It used to be an heirloom

            - now it’s just a hand-me-down.

And then you wonder

why you even came at all.

At dusk the lights decorate the low hanging clouds.

Greens and purples and yellows and reds

draw my attention to the neon rainforest.

.

And Andi, the ticketman, warns the patrons

before they enter the Fun House trailer,

but not of fright - of tetanus and asbestos.

.

Damned one-eyed snowman

‘cross the way

Why won’t he just blink?

.

He’s just got limbs FOR LIMBS, you see!

- and a frostbit gnarly nose.

Not his fault that Mother worked the night shift.

.

Not his fault that no one baby-proofed the corners

or trimmed the hanging branches.

or doused that damned burning bush!

.

The freaks don’t just come out at night.

Even the Bearded Lady has a five o’clock shadow

when she clocks out at the local lumber yard.

.

Far be it for me to judge,

those deep fried chocolate bars are just divine.

- as long as you have an insulin pen ready to go.

.

But the lemonade leaves much to be desired,

because sugar, water, and a lemon cut in half

are not the recipe for retention!

.

That giant rat is just a fat gray haired beaver!

And no, I am not talking about the Bearded Lady!!!

I want my money back!

.

There is only a limited supply of gray hair and bone left.

Never enough to go around,

but I’m glad you shared your snow angels.

.

I’ve never seen so foul a a sight,

so perverse an image,

that I wished I too only had one eye.

.

that I could be shoveled from domesticity

back to yonder, from which I never came.

Wouldn’t it be nice not to exist?

.

I bet I could hide beneath piles

of grief and “if only’s”

and the occasional hand-me-down.

.

So sometimes I just dream.

But that is just one side effect

of being born into a house of hoarders.

I.

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Silver screens and swollen lymphs

- they said it was cancer.

If only they knew that this is life on UPPERS!

Methamphetamine and soda jerks!

.

II.

Every man, a master.

Every bitch be blessed.

Turn off all your devices - your lifeline.

The red eye lands - toxic skies burn blue.

Check your baggage

(carry on space is limited, you know.)

and, now, behold the ire,

the sloth,

the heavy hands of time,

arthritic digits, crooked knuckles

snaggled in the sweatshops of industrial revolutions.

.

III.

Every king a Canterbury.

a Mecca. an Olympus.

You were baptized in a forgetful tide,

swathed in cotton blend placentas

and spit onto the banks of rocky water Wastelands

and magnificent orchards of sweet persimmon and nuclear melons.

That Holy Water is just a placebo.

.

IV.

Sour peat wafts from low country wetlands.

Biological warfare

(you know, those pesky WMD’s)

aged in barrels - cut from surfaced Cyprus cadavers.

Bayou Bar-B-Que smokehouses, (they make their own swamp sauce)

serve me up some of that turtle shell soup,

and turn it on my head.

and send me off to Golgatha’s inquisition.

.

V.

STOP!

The moon is rising!

Red and Blue make Purple!

- like the bruise inside my anticubital fossa!

And in another forty-eight hours,

the Sirens sing me to sleep!

.

Not to beat you to death with a horse,

but they really are beautiful.

The parody of an angel - cherubim - seraphim.

.

VI.

Just another failed suicide,

- no one ever died from cough syrup and prenatal vitamins.

But that bitch stole my clothes!

(and three and a half months of dirty texts and late-night bonfire debauchery)

but damn if this isn’t the coldest winter on record.

I thought it would be an awesome community of writers who would comment and critique one another’s work.

.

I thought that it would be a place where I could bounce ideas and ask questions.

.

I thought that I could contribute by offering my own critiques, to help other writers fine tune their craft.

.

I thought that tumblr could be used as a tool to grow in my desired field of work and maybe even integrate a new form.

.

I thought that tumblr was a place where unknown poets could be found, where the world could see the beauty (or filth) inside the best minds of a new generation.

.

Unfortunately, I was wrong on all accounts, and I have only grown in spite of the “community” of writers here on the pin-up board for cliche internet poetry.

He was a hunchback bastard child,

a son of faith and farce.

A gypsies tear and tamborine

made calm his restless heart.

.

The offspring of an angel

raped by a ramblin’ man,

he carried on his tristed trunk

a sling filld up with sand.

.

He traveled with his stoop and sandbag

twelve times ‘round the earth,

all the while, just searching for

the man who cursed him with his birth.

.

In every town the crookback came,

he’d spill a bit of dirt,

and promised when his sack laid slack

he’d leave behind his hurt.

.

With every bit of soil that spilt

his monstrous shoulders swelled

to points where Atlas envied not

the lode that he upheld.

.

When finally the cripple came

upon an empty church,

he emptied out his silt sachet

to end his listless search.

.

And as the last bit of the mulch

fell down before the altar,

a tear of flesh and crunch of bone,

he finally met his father.

.

For, from the currsed mound he carried

Angel’s wings sprung forth

and lifted him into the grace

of Heaven’s Holy court.

.

And in the strangest turn of fortune,

he refused to be remade.

The scars and stretches ‘tween his wings

reminded him of earthly pains.

The red-eye landed, horizon yet young.

From far past west, she sought more fertile soil,

unknown to her the song which now she sung.

.

Across the cobblestones she’d often stroll;

the river’s breath exhaled ‘cross weary panes,

where local’s gossiped ‘bout her fleshy bole.

.

To they, the girl arrived with much disdain.

Though never did she slight them for their scorn,

but took the stage, and strove to entertain.

.

It took not long for her to be adored,

her name synonymous with slender grace.

For, when she danced and sang her lovers roared.

.

As day and night then became interlaced,

time drew on, and so drew from her youth.

The not-so-new girl, now, was soon displaced.

.

While in her dreams she danced and sang, in truth

the present offered no reprise to she,

who’s only talent had been to seduce

.

with flashing lights and face on a marquee.

“See our own Oriental Queen!” it glowed,

with flickering bulbs, it shone a limp decree.

.

Still, never was her name too widely known

(she held that close; for, much is in a name),

until the day they found her note: “Willow”

.

T’was then the townsmen felt all of her shame.

Into each of their hearts the girl had crept

and laden them all with a bit of blame,

.

as one-bye-one they each came to accept,

it was for them that graceful Willow hung.

It was for them that lonesome Willow wept.

Look twice

before you jump

into a maelstrom

of inarticulate

mumbo-jumbo-Operation Dumbo

dropping

a parachute of pure ecstasy,

searching for a less conventional course study,

to hang oneself above,

drown oneself below,

a wasteland

of towering welfare debt,

into the wild blue yonder,

the deep blue sea,

the bluest eyes

to ever dive into the pasteurized

FDA approved innocence

of Generation ME!

I watched them worship

through stained glass,

tinted windows,

a lineup,

who’s who

of has been

and never was

and never wanted to be

anything more than “now.”

Fist pumping

through forty days and nights

of religious indifference.