passionate death

we're all falling through the rain on the morning
when the canceled debts come marching in
to crush our hopes and judge our sin

we played with fire on the mountain tops
we cried for deliverance but our tears
were our tormentors tools of choice.

we're calling out for God in the mischief
the lift of the wing, the dangling of the carrot string
sharpened glass on roads bereaved of caring

tension in the dried circles cropping up
around the mildewed fluttering peace
salivating over slugs that once were us.

and the doves that laid their eggs forgotten
found a new way of giving up hope
rat-a-tat and listen to the saints singing

hypocrisy encased in laughable lies
telling the wind one thing and having it
piss right back in your scraggly beard.

hinting at the hatred on the edge of a pier
fainting in the second act and wishing
crazily for respite in the time of storm

shocking the lizard in you who are nothing
it was the outlandish “how can you be the
elite when you are casual nothing?” question.

the boots, the kicking boots, and knocking
are a cruel daytime high – hilariously
shimmying off garbage for nifty nothing

gagging on the drunken reflex to forgetting
bathing in a lily pad of cheap wine and
we're settling for less than dillydallying.

barking on the windy winding wildly
dripping faucet of the moonlit death
career-less drifting towards perishing

we're pushing back against the lice
the crawling paint of vampire-like
licentiousness with hints of ginger.

dying would levitate if vicious crumby
concubines drunk on kumquats
lost their place in space wondering

where did the id get her courage?
and why were we flaking our responsible
falling flakes of snow in the desert of desserts?

passionate death, i'd say to her face if i
awoke and found she'd slept with life
in the absence of a treaty signed and dated

hush. the wind is whipping up a picky silence
sheathed in screaming, scraping ripping of
the media box from the cheap green vinyl siding.

it's dark, it's late. it's cloudy and absurd.
the engines are silent and pouring the poor coffee
quite unreasonably settling for the life dregs

we loved life in a honeymoon of madness
but our lust was tempered in the rush for place
and time and the word divorce it morphed to suicide.

- Cedar Rapids, Iowa off 1st st sw