Poem: Lament For The Addict Who Thought He Was Turning Up A Temple At The Cookout

By dusk, tables erect
shadow towers. Upturns
and kicks remake head rings
into noise that knows no thought,
unto sound that recedes
from no sieve or filter
In smoke, food, or liquor.
The lent fiends penance flows
are empty in a park
that long scurried away.

“In god, sober, I weighed
these idols. Take this spark
as my remembrance
of clean that was dirty
to kids in the city.
Take this body pittance
of my mind as I bend
my pretense piety.”

And at his days end, he ties
his final rope to spiked tree strands,
branches recut, spiked and cuffed
with stuff far harder than words.
Kicks and upturns far harder
than proverbs close and re-chaff
the synapses in his brain.
They repeat failures from staffs
that broke our mornings, as whiffs
that repeat again, then again
then again: his dust bells chimes.


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