Oily Times in Turpentine

Oily Times in Turpentine


cracked hopes litter streams of tears,
hands are made dirty by lied-to hearts
no one gets golden wings anymore,
here piety is marked by crosses and thorns

sheets of cake lie in rows,
waiting for children
tours of elderly policemen patrol the casinos,
eager to score convictions,
their ears ring constantly.
blown hearts float on currents of dust,
to mark landings of fate and crimson raindrops

faint hearted teenage girls mix ash with honey,
to lure boys to them with open mouths
as timber wolves sing for their suppers and sleep
hunger hangs like a hot robe around them

no one grows long hair anymore,
the air is too bad
a motoring youth is a mobile youth,
with no intentions
of embracing a mad,
mocking hatred of their parents,
rebellion is petite in their minds
and in their speech

but the swallows of age
flutter around my brow,
forcing me to tend their young
in forlorn desert nurseries
i fail and they die,
turning to dust in days
before me and my comrades
who all forgot their egos and
fed them water and bread in passing

saviors busy themselves in wardrobe,
dressing to impress,
in raptures they wait,
in stride with churned wakes of holiness,
the self immolation of three generations
makes for a good show,
and not one of them,
wants to get kicked out for being tardy

i ask my boss
why crows always seem to mock us,
as we build roads to Rome with soap and bones
he spits acid at my feet
and calls me lazy,
i reply that i am just curious
and a student of Burroughs, Thompson,
Bukowski, Plato, and Ginsberg

an old woman tries not to swallow her tears of glass,
her youth and hearing
have deserted her for her grandchildren
who steal from her tip jar
to buy lightning in pieces,
for five Euros a fragment,
to throw at their little sisters

millionaire wives collect hateful bits of humor,
and build diamond towers,
from which to throw
all of their fear from in easterly directions
they cringe at the thought of having more children,
with whom they become
adversarial allies
in an axis of loathing and stunted growth

charred bits of wood
float to shores of rocky promenades.
remains of cabin cruisers
that sailed too close to the egos of their owners,
flame licks flames,
whose touch is tamed,
though minimal contact
with maritime mediums
and drafts of jeering pride

crowds of children mob the soldier,
they only want candy,
to touch the alien,
to smell the auras of western life energies
their questions lost in language not understood
will I get to be free?  
will I matter in the world?  
will I martyr my youth for tyranny?  
will I forgo my sacred purpose for points in Heaven?

my flag flies,
casting huge shadows,
and darkens some landscapes
Light resists,
but is occupied and assimilated,
my war is not your war
It is dangerous and I wear a helmet,
but strangely no seat belt!
every time I complain,
I have to see a therapist,
who has to say I am sane

the east side holds hands with the west side,
as they try to climb a hill,
ene side lets go,
but scatters
before they can see the slaughter
not caring
about getting caught by international tribunals,
crimes against humanity
are relative in blue states,
finite in red

memories fade into grey mists,
which hover over central coasts,
to lead travelers
into moods of somber patriotism
they turn and go back to bed
in hotels booked in winter,
hoping for corn futures to brighten
and yield profit

i dream of Centaurs in herds,
with arrows in their backs,
running across rocky fields
in mortal fear and anguish
their world destroyed,
they find themselves alone in new lands,
while I wake to find myself in Afghanistan,
sweating to death in a dusty room