crapola and shinola

You think you’re smart like a cup of coffee. Stutter spitting out poetry like a machine that was birthed in rhythm and is flying through the busted teeth of a back-street prize-fighter. Your knuckles are grazed against the wall and there is skin and some blood left like retarded graffiti for the hawks that pay close attention to find. This is what your words always tasted of — that slightly metallic hint of blood on the teeth like you rammed your head through reinforced glass to get the point across.

The proof is in the bullet but you’re not bullet proof and neither is the meat of any of the hopeful saints in waiting with their gold teeth and gospel church faith. you think you can kill the world with an idea but all they want is some flag waving fake with lies that last until election to office. You worked in the gardens of the bowels of hell tending flowers that would one day be cancer, kissing their carcinogenic hearts with nicotine lips and spitting the poison in the eye of your unborn children. You are a genius waiting on the say so of an idiot — the organ grinder in slavery to the monkey; but hey bucko, that’s how it goes.

One finger, the pointing finger, slid through the grease on a window to write prognostications for the haphazard audience of a sit-down eatery. You want to save some and doom others so you leave diceroll Russian roulette intellectual freeware smeared on any surface you can find. They pass on a poster or a graffiti stencil with a kiss. A novel mapped onto the strands of a virus. A haiku in a sneeze. You became a disease.

And who would you say you are? A nobody with a brownpaper crown you origami-ed out of the bag your whiskey came in. you joke, you laugh, you leave things behind, and you move on. We were told you lived on the horizon but when we reached the one we had been looking at it and you were gone.