Bad Screen
It is too cold for bat flights around the moon
but I take the trip anyway,
the jar of moonshine was crazy strong.
When this year topples into the next,
time will find me in a crowded stadium
my back turned from the game in disgust,
or maybe I will be crouched
like a comic book gargoyle on the top of my TV
watching pockets of insanity
explode like grenades
on a plasma screen dream.
If I am able to write without crushing my fingers
I will try to describe the roving bands of reapers
and their scythes;
how those kindly terminators ended
the fun-house peep show,
how also behind those hoody figures
hordes of blank-eyes city workers
dutifully moped up the spill, as if spilled brains
were as hazardous as banana skins.
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