He bleeds

saturated

with greasepaint and fry grease and flies on the wall

unchecked lies and checkerboard calluses and callous youth

He

breathes

Wednesday afternoon dregs and

sleep-sharp sighs and

dopamine sunsets and

whispered codeine

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.

He

draws

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

and always,

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

burning,

either way,

stubborn and damned

as the lava we once imagined,

decreed and

defied

in sneering rivers on His temple floor.

Thumbnail courtesy Tysto on Wikimedia Commons.