Breath-bags –
Inflate,
Embrace,
Prepare for a collision:
Cough.

T-boned
Between heartbeats
By a big-rig freight truck.
Can’t walk that one off.

Stuck pedal;
Petrol;
Blood splatter;
Dented metal;
Internal bleeding of the bladder;
Engine steaming like a kettle.

Insurance claim
Could pay double.
Well,
If this were blackjack.

But this ain’t no game.
It’s a metaphor
For a person as a Pontiac
With two dead kids in the back.

He bought a one way ticket to El Salvador –
Not a plane ticket
Because fuck the sky.
Somewhat sketchy
Possibly cartel?
Boat leaving in July.

Last ditch effort he
Split his shit like symmetry
From the
Pathetic pokes and hollers.
‘Till he had nothing but a ticket
To El Salvador
(and thirteen thousand American dollars).

 

We seem hopeless and silly

And yet I subscribe to us avidly –

Because where other forces still me

I’m always pulled in by your gravity.

Why are you planting roses, darling?
They’ll just bloom to die then dry and harden.
Why do you try so fiercely, darling
To turn this ditch into a garden?

I’m just planting rows of roses, daddy.
And when they’ve rose? The storm adorns
A tempest to tear away the pedals, daddy,
So then I can gather up all the thorns.

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There’s pink paint:
It’s chipping,
Peeling off –
Runaway.

Gust of breeze?
One way ticket
Of hopping freight cars
On the Windway.

Neither fault
Of the paint,
Nor the wood:
Just bad channeling.

And yet,

Though the paint
Is gone, it will be
Forever a part
Of the paneling.

“The thing I want you to think about,” he was dressed in a suit of bloody valentine, “because I’m so perplexed by it myself,” charcoal bowler cap tilted dangerously to the left, “why on earth, knowin’ what your mama told ya’,” drawing a pack of cigarettes from his blazer, “would you want to sell your soul,” lighting the tip with a snap of his smoldering fingers, an inhale, “to the Devil?”

Exhale. A moment of silence (beat to our thespian friends).

“Well,” and not the timid kind, but the assertive, “I just really need five dollars.”

“And that’s what you’d reckon you soul’s worth?”

He reaches forward, soliciting a drag from the devil’s cigarette. “Something like that,” it passes hands, and the seller take a puff, “I guess $4.74, but ya know”, another drag met with a cough, “that’s before taxes.”

Beat.

They both laugh.

So, this is sadness.
Which is kind of funny.
It tastes a lot like purple.
It’s sticky, sweet, and goes down
Like honey,
But it’s also chalky,
Matte,
Dry,
And makes the stomach hurdle.

You need neither priest nor necromancer
– And not just because they’re both hit-or-miss –
But reason being: what was first thought to be cancer
Has been re-diagnosed as regular bitterness.

She had an appetence
To tie little knots
And nooses on hopeful winches.
He had a talent
At building miles of heart,
But breaking them by inches.