Gamble

Zing. Click. (laughter)

Zing. Click. (laughter)

Two gacked out gangsters play

woops-I-shot-myself-in-the-head

I leave because I don’t believe in luck

I need red vines and a cool breeze

too many fallen angels these days

littering the sides of drive-thrus

no boxes to fill in

no thesis to conclude to

not another round of orally ovulating the dead horse

fuck

pretend you’re not trying to say anything

and you slip up and say something anyway

does that belong to you?

lilacs always dry darker than their mother’s day brightness

we hung them in the windows, by their ankles in the spring sun,

White roses veining blue with food coloring in the vase

waiting patiently for some sort of solution

a solid if not stable way to end all this

happiness churning around inside me

this mass of unused happiness

mere fruit rotting on the counter

I blame Mother’s Art Supplies

pulverized not so much this time

this mind, a sack of meat, won’t work someday

I am in a hurry

to tell you all what happened

but new shit is happening

happening all the time

and one day

it will have all happened

all of it.

Happened.

and perhaps I am insane

why wouldn’t I be

I must write to find out

digging and rooting around in the soil

building books

cordless books for the cordless people

bring all your lead-based paint-chip children

suck some warm kool-aid down with me

and remember Chernobyl day

shaving our heads to look like cancer kids

handing out fliers on dying to the already dead

and enjoying the multicolored

pain filled rainbows

one last breath at a time

because I don’t believe in luck