He bleeds


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

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.



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


either way,

stubborn and damned

as the lava we once imagined,

decreed and


in sneering rivers on His temple floor.

Thumbnail courtesy Tysto on Wikimedia Commons.