Poets and writers drink more intensely. Smoke more intensely. Worship God more intensely. Poets and writers fuck more intensely. Poets and writers give more willingly-- spilling the alphabetical marrow of their souls out into the albino sonogram of hope that is the page, hoping some stranger whom he or she has never before met turns to his crafted syllables in time of dire need and somehow finds solace, finds laughter finds a friend.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Is the first bar on Main Street to herald a rainbow
Hoisting a shadow of flagellating pride
over the dead-tooth neon sidewalks
Overturned chandelier caricatured fingers
Reverberating subwoofers, lolling baritone
Dirge, Hopscotch of variegated strobe casting
Cogs and pistons in a Caterpillar tractor
Dancing into the peach of dawn.
Fuel is the boys with short hair, tucked in white
Sometimes wearing dresses and heelsand glitter
Salt and pepper shaker
Chafed genitals, vowels of the night
Finding yourself in every shot you slam at the bar