knucklebone

whetstone

or gray

screen blues

 

old habits

show up

unannounced

and uninvited,

knock shave

and a haircut

on the front

door and let

themselves

inside.

 

they spill into

the room, my

gut, nose and

bloodstream.

 

i ask that they

remove their

shoes, they

don’t then ask

if i plan on

wearing that

tonight before

pilfering the

refrigerator

and covering

my vault-tec

bobblehead

totems and

other sacred

collectibles in

soot colored

kool-aid

fingerprints.

 

i force a

laugh,

excuse

myself

and slip

outside.

 

i disturb

a young

grave in

the vegetable

garden, dig

up an old self

with a plastic

child’s beach

shovel, drape

my dirty

corpse over

my shoulders

and chassé

around the

backyard like

a cartoon

princess

in an

expository

montage

intended to

express

character

growth.

 

we regather

around a

garbage fire

my vices set

in the kitchen,

entertain each

other with folk

songs and

ghost stories.

 

a tune about

a marionette

morphic field

with tangled

cosmic

strings in

a corrupt

puppet show

set in a

misshapen

garden of

eden born of

atom bombs

and blood

sacrifice.

 

an old yarn of

reptilian loosh

farmers just

outside the

preschool of

visible light

breeding

human cattle

for slaughter,

corralled by

time bought

on credit in

a karmic

debt based

reincarnation

economy

run by a

banking

cartel of

wizards with

an ancient

babylonian

money spell

and an

insatiable

penchant for

domination

and control.

 

a poem

safety

pinned 

under the

pretense

of x-mas

specters

about

folding

laundry in

a tonal

tuned to

the tolling

of our

church

bell death

star moon

i don’t like

and intend

to replace.

 

my

trespasses

squat a spell,

when they

leave

i forgive them.

 

domesticated

by the holy

arbitrary

description of

my birthright,

it seems the

only sensible

thing to do

with such a

large and

inexhaustible

ego is to

write it down.

 

so i wake up

every

morning and

carve a smile

into my face

with a crayon

because,

 

any

clown

worth

their

shoes

knows

the joke

is on

them.