




























catharsis set in banshee demons cross plains of provisions harvested for organ donations and the sirens be screaming at the waves for chastising their chastity and maybe the junkies aren’t all that it’s cracked up to be and I fled the valley, finally. running up rolling paper maché mountains past the machine of the maker and hell was a steeper climb than angel dust and somewhere someone’s laughing at my chest breathing heavily, sign around my neck marked, I’m a runner, but faster at walking, and I’m trying to tighten the knots in my stomach that account for every broken piece that’s been spit at me. and I found my one way ticket to hell without unforgivable sins or even dying, just ended up with beats of turn table scratching at the floor boards to send me furthermore, I found it: hell without river styx sparking flames to ignite my body dangling downwards by my ankles – tie me, I’m ready for the suffocation of stability, never thought my own secretion would betray me. met the devil on an accordion binge at tight rope walking, came charging up to me balanced on cardboard feet, dressed like a beast, kissed cheeks like whores at the onyx gates, smelled filthy, she said with jagged tooth smiling dangerously, if I go to hell, you go to hell with me.
one time you found a rosary in the garden,
remember when it was cracked down the middle,
split like skulls of aqua rock,
i chucked it across the walk way
and you were humming, jerry come back to me
and maybe the decomposing of your brain
sparked brush fires and fist fights
and you buried it under rose bushes
and marked each gravestone with
rest in pieces
of puzzling clarity,
you’d rather spit up those 12 steps,
because they couldn’t force feed you sobriety
and you kept dreaming
and I kept hoping you’d see ghosts surface
from the moon’s shadows
and it hurt me to tell you that i never knew the answers
but i didn’t deserve the anger
and i couldn’t watch my mother die
and i don’t even wonder why
she didn’t want me to know
that the blood flowing out her nose
was the same blood flowing out my wrists
and it mixed red like the poster paint
you can still find at the drug store.
and the drug store
has become a lot more
than mint ice cream cones
or developing pictures
from that one time
or grabbing a bottle of coke
to mix with
your whiskey dick
and i’m so helpless
picking up your prescriptions
to store in your medicine cabinet
so i’m hosting a pity party
for the refugees of the families
of addicts
and someone sold their sole prints
to the devil’s apprentice
and he’s making stone shoes for the reckless
and both my mother and my best friend have brown eyes
and they leave trails of lavender
behind ballet feet
and i’m kneeling over the caskets of what once was
and my mother,
wanted to be a nun,
a composition of god in a black habit
and my best friend,
just wanted to be a junkie
and that’s a composition of everything
in the world mixed with our bad habits
and i’m fronting you verses to work with
hoping you’ll pay back the debt
of prescriptions and robberies
watching my fingers shrivel and become skeleton
keys to unlock the psychology of that shit city.
and you say i don’t know a lot about addicts
but i know enough about my mother and my best friend
to stand up and hide all the razor blades in our house
and i know enough about addicts to try and not be one
and i’ll stroke your ego ‘til the angels come
and they’re coming
yeah they’re coming
you can hear their wings
and it sounds like resurrection.