Monday, November 19, 2012

Recovery

We are the crippled and orphaned children of God
Our father’s long gone,
He charged headlong
And was lost in the napalm hellfire
Somewhere in Vietnam.
Herds of wasted youth crumbled
Went weak at the knees and tumbled, comatose,
Down the twelve steps to desolate street corners.
Those kids once stepped with purpose on cracks,
Mother be damned!
The gaps were as wide as chasms
Later they slithered by from drink to drug
To sincerely faked orgasms.
Now twenty-something’s doctor shop for assisted suicide
While chipped teeth grit through pain
Of broken homes and knuckle bones
In neon lit bars and pitch black back alleys
Within the barbed wire boundaries of “paradise.”
Sick of half-mast spangled flags
And, what follows, half-assed apologies.
Their granitic hearts wedged and cracked by night-frost
Struggle to flutter and cease to beat
The song of eons.
We coast uphill on the choking, caustic,
Factory winds of change
Only to collapse again at the apex in epileptic agony.
Necrotic wounds of the Sawtooth
Cauterized and stitched
Finally memorialized
Then gouged out again,
And we masquerade progress.
Wandering clichés in torn shoes
Not lost, but found only on perimeters
Of milk cartons
And distant cities
Shrouded in narcotic murk.
Cigarettes, they bridge the voids between
Innumerable broken dreams
We’ll share sewing needles
In attempts to mend each other’s seams
And end up more forlorn than before with hepatitis C.
Us soul-seekers, we crawl on Wounded Knee,
Dream of Blood Meridian and smell of ethylated Mercury.
As the congealing dawn
Of our vampiric sun
Leeches the last drops of lifeblood
From endless alcoholic legions,
Rotted corpses of the material
Leave only so many "isms" behind
In the tormented minds of urban marauders.
The walking dead carry medals and repress their memory
Of swan-dives into shallow pools of tragic predestiny.
Bleary and kaleidoscopic,
Slow-motion overture
Of an arrhythmia and an EKG machine
Set to our abject murmurs in dark mud
Echoing voices of the unseen.
Post atomic generation half drowned in paregoric
Hanged until dead, and without exception
Buried beneath mountains of spent fuel rods.
Brains composed of equal parts
Ubiquitous naïveté and bullshit
Find respite in elective lobotomy.
Deranged junkies in bread lines
Sink their teeth into the hands of priests
Litanic curses reach nothing,
Save the bleeding ears of the deaf.
Men with ancient white beards tread the treacherous cliff-edge
Between peaks of genius and valleys of madness
They pray for euthanasia
Or a hard shove,
One or the goddamned other.

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