#Poet Battle Final

a junk man whirligig all packaged
in black carpetbagger moveable type
suitcase from Mardi Gras to coup de tat
fat Tuesday colored beads crucified neck
his flower power hair tête-à-tête
the lady standing reading Bukowski
knew his archetype a legend a mystery
tarnished silver gargoyles enlarged ring finger
boneskullery signs of the cross continue to linger
dyed purple tattoos inked like graffiti
written across the train scratchiti
sounds like a truck stop in Memphis
or Huntsville Alabama a pimp a prostitute
a preacher man all I remember tucked in
the top a copy of the poetry anthology lopsided
backpack objects he collected from his travels
this memoirist unravels he gathers his gear
as he began to leave whether a mountain man
it appeared unclear but in this urban environment
there are valleys and peaks dog sniffing thieves
cons liar sifting prowler predators duke earls
gangsters racketeers in his world he
anthologized what he saw did not need
a word just moonshine maybe a guffaw
privy to see this story standing in the
trains observatory





??I remember the bitter taste of the pills rammed down our young throats.
Our peers were getting thrills from ecstasy, whilst we were in agony,
the ironic mirroring did not slip past me.
The angels in white coats found their calling in saving our fragile perceptions.
El diablo, and his henchman diagnosis, dealt in our deception.
Deprived of experiences due to our protection, we found positive futures were an exception.
Receiving our meds as though receiving communion, the body of christ in the shape of a valium.
The screaming of mania still haunts my unconscious; my dreams still filled with girls’ fierce resistance of food. Their frail organs that stopped pumping too soon, before they could win their battle with their nemesis.
In sleep I still kiss their thinning hair and beg them to repair their bodies.
To allow the sweet nurture of nourishment to embrace their interior.
Alas, they would still feel inferior to fellow girls at death’s door,
who had given in, so self assured, they will soon be perfect.
I could never forget the times I spent, eyes squeezed shut trying to repent.
Though my memories serve me better
than the death sentence served cold on the silver platter to these waifs.


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