Fist and Wail
reality bites
like a pit-bull fights
I sit here and drink this six pack (tall)
and my arm hurts and my finger hurts:
my dreams are something wasted like
spring flowers in September
and my feet reach Russia in my nightmares.
my sadness my sorrow
please give me more of your stamina
and this night is something that I can’t drink away,
the snakes crawl on the drapes like some hell
creatures and the pigeons suffer outside in the
dim light of this world
of this page
of this bitterness.
outside
rain.