This poem is inspired by Charles Bukowski. |
there’s a bluebird in my lungs that pleas for a Marlboro, but I quit smoking one year ago. I beg, stop chirping so loud, I’m not going to let you die. there’s a bluebird in my lungs that also sings for a joint, instead I carry an electronic cigarette, inhaling water vapor truce, so that he hides from the workers, boss and cops, so they’ll never know he’s in there. there’s a raven on my left thigh that’s tattooed on skin, but I’m more permanent than him. I’d cut off his legs,so he doesn’t claw my eyes, but would he want to claw my eyes? I ask, do you want to drive me to work? do you want to scribble down teacher’s notes? there’s a raven on my left thigh that’s tattooed next to a portrait of Poe, and Poe shifts side-eyed to acknowledge raven’s stare. I say, this is why you can’t be my eyes, you’re too busy stripping Poe down to bones. there’s a cobra on my tongue that wants to hiss my words, but I silence him by feeding him mice, but I’m too afraid he’ll bite my lip, so I let him curse my enemies and kiss my grandma. there’s a cobra on my tongue that I keep caged within Pandora’s Box, he absorbs the sins I commit into each layer of skin, and I swallow his sheddings with a shot of Jim. there’s a security guard decaying in my brain that lays comatose in front of I Love Lucy reruns, screens that are supposed to monitor barbaric animals within my body. he must have passed out a while back, I feel the gnats nibbling on his skin. there’s a guard decaying in my brain that once tamed these animals, but now they’ve picked locks on cages, and it’s chaotic enough to make any man insane, but I’m not insane, so I must be divine - I survive what locks schizophrenics in padded rooms, while hugging themselves into comas. I am god from my mind to footprints stamped on concrete - my wingspan smile and converse rubber soles invite disciples out to dinner for glasses of white russians. I am god in my mind and a sinner on toes - scaring followers to spend nights between my sheets. They are quick to leave next mornings, as they wipe snake skin off from lips, but, truth be told, I’ve never spent one night on my own . |