Email Poem

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Poem

Truth is a mouthful of blood -spit upon a Persian rug
a kick to the balls in the middle of the sweetest dream
karma doesn't stop chewing until the souls licked clean
and what of our far off god -that mysterious golden being,
stirring hell into our soil since we were mustard seeds. 

Everyone thinks of offing themselves from time to time
usually when we're running low on honey and wine 
when mad horses trample over our parched field lives.
Something brings most back from the brink
maybe it's the bouncing star baby sleeping in the crib
or the dirty plunger when it finally frees up the sink.

You may as well dance because it's more painful to crawl
kiss a stranger on the mouth, have yourself a ball
but don't bounce the ball off the devil's burning grass
or he just may kick down your little white picket fence 
and light up your happy little a$$.

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