My Spoons


(Orange; a pungent unguent

scarlet grey; encased

decayed as madman brains. The season when my reasons

weren't ridiculous enough to keep you from going sane

on me.)


I'll tell you now why my spoons will always be a little

burnt on the bottom:

A reckless recluse

A monk con-rookie

A bag of dogeared dreams

But for Charlotte's dagger

Marat would have died scratching in bloody bath water.

Criminal? No, just dismal.

Jesus Cockroach! God wouldn't bust a grape to save

this world.

Salve or salvation? A good fucking

is all my hemorrhoids remember

an elegant pull -- a dashing thrust

carnal and carnivorous

elastic embarrassment of mortal souls with immortal drawers

slack at their ankles.

If my prison was Hell and the Devil

was my row dog -- Aw shit Aushwitz

but it's not that simple.

Dismal? No, criminal.

A weak broth of bland humiliation

Slaves of weightless chains

Whispered dictates

Anger with no bulls eye.

The picture of Hell as a Holiday Inn

sure, there's no ice machine

but the management is maddeningly polite.

News of a Lunatic Muse:

If you catch a case in Hell

they turn the gas up.

(proof that there are degrees of damnation)

In Hell there is a legend

that God's cock is so long

it reaches all the way down here from heaven

and you can suck your way out -- an inch per century.

Salve or salvation?

I must sound peyote tit bitter

But that's why my spoons will always be

a little burnt on the bottom.



Inmate #380000
Wynne Unit
Huntsville, Texas