what comes out, when it takes days to write a poem

wraiths gone wild
walking within a
feeble underworld
stretched under a september sun
we remember well
the smell
of november’s gun

back scatter and illusion
everything has changed
sidestepped and slightly off-center
we can never return
to the bliss
of that first elaborate kiss
so, run like it’s your last day
or your first

always different
fingers scraping across bone
always belligerent
summoning this hobbled clone

i am not the conductor
i am simply
the song
written by someone else
out of time
and sung within the audience’s mind
driven by whimsical words
splattering glorious platitudes
of nothing
there is no right or wrong
just alliteration
and widespread alteration
as we blaze internal trails
and decimate unrepentant jails

with a pinched tongue
and pickled mind
halos are crossed with horns
malevolent design
consigned, declined
entombed and enshrined

stunned and subdivided
by the disobedience
of god’s languishing architecture
we are filed away
by the touch of some other
cheap and elaborate escapade

thought to form
with no hope
bought and sold
like anxious rabbits
coming in from the cold

the motor hums
moving backwards
and this fuel burns hot
with trepidation
and vapid negotiation
lines and lanes
are confused with steamy intent
as we travel
to another dead location
perhaps it’s just a
reluctant vacation
from all this pointless meditation

multiple personalities,
falling from the mouth of eternity
as i sip slipping memories
like a vintage glass of wine
struggling to pass the time
in hopes of typing an eternal rhyme

we were taught to know better
but somehow
we refused
so just gimme two smokes
and a vagrant’s dreams
selling park bench mornings
and freedom’s lonely themes



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