poem 165 of a poem a day for 2012

in a trillion trillion bullet song

white hair god sends doves 

to impregnate gullible teenage girl

sows grains of magnetized brains 

into fingers of bone shaved empty

hairless skin stays underground 

for holy sin to get into yourself

pray to get back out for monogamy 

is on every sidewalk sales lists

lower than expected sales has many buyers 

just stealing themselves blind

copulatory time capsules are fashioned 

out of roadside plastic bottles

and re-littered 

millions of drivers can't go nowhere fast enough

to blur reality in the name of talking boxed marionetted divinities

these days plasma third eyes are liquid crystal inner-vision

arrest warrants for new names in the sub-cultural slang languages 

Spanish galleons full of illegal Caucasians have been seen

setting sail from many western ports 

the ocean and its angry mouthed tides

will follow them to a swallow's end for sure 

but until somebody digs it up

we'll wait for the coupon and the grind of dollar 

and sand and silt bottom jeans

that make every ass look fat enough 

for the witches in the woods to eat

with serene cackle spitted skin and grins 

that sound like whispers in the trees

we become knees down

prayers for more lottery tickets

to ensure the cement shoes fit

because to suffer today

is the surest written path

to heaven's gates

when you are out of breath

and while hell seems to motivate 

more precisely than heaven

this is because where you have to go 

when your soul has to pee

each unidentifiable identity 

which brings me back to the forest of knees

at the edge of the dunes that clock the carves of wind

more bottoms are feeding feed more whore mouths 

who wait without faces to be suckle-fed

the bled parts of what humanity used to be 

we are seen as ghosts now

when foraging for nourishment

we used to simply bleed 

instead of bending chorus angel need

we angle regard to be weeds 

in the cracks here

hard surface souls splayed out 

in two dimensions only

on asphalt and concrete sideshows

steel and glass rails left wanting

organics fashioned into manageable bits

slowing digestion

consumption of plastic 

keeps spoilage leaking

we die off slow enough 

to be profitted from

we wander about in aimless kite wars 

with knives in the clouds 

and piss in the rain

every one of our hands 

is cupping pleas

for more of this 

comfortable cage and

the sage advice of silence and 

the smell of smoke

after the bullet song

EJR ©