I feel you pace
atop my marriage coffin
where I have been buried alive
with too much dirt between us
I will gnaw my way
to your feet
and wait for you
to reach for me
if only once
"Knocking on Heaven's Door"
is on repeat
I sit here--head bowed,
lips move in unison with Bob Dylan
take this badge from me, I pray.
don't want to see myself
curled in a corner,
fingernail polish half worn off
from clawing at that door.
All these chairs in the house sit empty.
My ass is plastered to the tile,
bruised knees--heart level.
I smell like stale cigarettes and beer
and seem to be melting into the grout,
imagining the kitchen floor is a maze,
a puzzle to solve.
I can do it myself!
Christ, I wish I did drugs
or enjoyed being drunk.
I'm too fucking sober.
Road Kill Lap-Dance
She had that long-legged-jukebox-lean,
He had that heroin-don't-care-stare.
They were grizzly in the sheets
too tangled to breathe through smog of deceit.
Flickering neon dripped chaos on
mirrored lines--underlining lies.
He spat her out:
on the bottom of a bottle from Mexico.
He was: genius,
cooling boiling cerebral cortex on ice,
brain stem: a swizzle stick
with cellophane decoration--
not good for much, but party favors.
She ran out of quarters and the magic fingers stopped.
That's what happens at feeding time
down at the Purple Possum,
where road-kill's sexy,
if you have the guts to look it in the eye,
as you press the accelerator.