Beat It

These masquerades,
the paper trains,
the long hard winters
where our eyes forget
what it's like to feel
warm and dry.

Dry flakes of sour humor
rock the mouths of
the tawny hips,
the tattooed lips,
hipsters, gangsters,
spoon stirs the pot,
rocks the boat,
keeps it flowing
hot, soupy
and dripping,
like the endless rain
on the ferry to Bainbridge.

On a Saturday morning,
finishing my coffee cold
and my scone crumbling
apart like our lives
always are.

Dripping dry pieces
all over the heads
of children that only
wish they were innocent.

Ladies and gentlemen,
boys and girls get ready
for a heart that's
bursting because it's
rotten with misunderstanding.
Get ready for a guillotine
loaded with unrelenting
selfish ideals.

Mark it, set it,
go home, make it
to your bed at night.
Make it comfortable
make it right.
Swing it tighter,
look up higher
from the feet,
to the collar bones.
They are an arrow
to the eyes.

Match your eyes.
Pin them together
on each other, and
let the ringing
lightning flying
colored sameness
collide.

Keep me alive.
Wake me at five.
Before the painter
starts work on the sky.
Bring it round to the morning
and show me
there are still things un-ruined.
Show me there are still
verbal
herbal connections.
Organic,
good for your,
body, soul, mind, heart,
condemned head.

I know they exist.
My divine bones know.
They live in the cracks,
in the rips,
and the single pennies
waiting on the sidewalk
to bring you good luck.