with hearts on our sleeves
we dive off trenches too shallow to hold
our rugged individualism
our bohemian scribbles were a mess of proper nouns
vomited randomly across a page
the poetic equivalent of abstract expressionism
(pollock and ginsberg would be proud)

transcending suburban picket fence
murky urban streets of sputtering machines
--idiotic post-industrial antichrists
guzzling blood and spewing destruction--
into the night we'll crawl

meanwhile:
back on the planet where souls get lost
between the brick and the woods
you snort the lines off of blank pages
and feign shock when asked
how long heroin and ketamine stay in the body
(1-3 and
2-4 days, respectively)--

these are the lives we live
between idiosyncratic idolatry
idiomatic, idiopathic ideological fantasies
between our id
and the crack behind our beds
where dreams tend to fall.

...but I know
that we will crawl --
with bloody hands and broken hearts
that seem to stretch for miles --
into the night
abhorring the vainglorious national monument
the enormous vile statue of americana
as it boldly passes by; (!)
and we gasp
and shriek into the meaningless oblivion
out of boredom
or desperation
or both.  ¶ 4/23/2007 08:55:00 PM