with greasepaint and fry grease and flies on the wall
unchecked lies and checkerboard calluses and callous youth
Wednesday afternoon dregs and
sleep-sharp sighs and
dopamine sunsets and
straight through the tailpipes of men
whose veins rush dry like neon rubble out freeway windows
engines whining refrains of His promise:
at His velocity, home won’t matter.
black ruts beside creased knucles and brass rings beneath baggy eyes
venom from the oceans and talismans from the sewers
chasms and dust between I love and you, static and tar between I need and help
His roars from parched lips wrenched slack between bass throbs.
And He is
a time machine a thoroughfare a sandbox a blanket a straitjacket a dream an affair a reminder a crypt
stubborn and damned
as the lava we once imagined,
in sneering rivers on His temple floor.
Thumbnail courtesy Tysto on Wikimedia Commons.