Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Abstract Suspect

There’s a guttural feeling beneath the calumet
A grinding halt to the ritual
Smiles hasten into frowns
And I feel bad for the one that pushed the bell

There’s a howling suspicion in the wind
A fading superstition that lingers in
Laissez-faire or Bourgeoisie,
Accommodations of catastrophe
Serendipitous dilemmas and
Sanctions breaking down,
By the sharks of this town, inflicting…
Surface wounds and
Surfeit shells,
Discrepancies and songs,
Songs we’ve got to know, ills we’ve learned all too well

Syncopation, spin and spin
Whiskey, Rye, Tonic, Gin and Gin
Serengeti nights be told, of the hours spent in a Saharan cold—broken for feverish decals, labeled carelessly on the backs of rickshaws, spider-webs and dropouts from bartender schools that advertise in the back of free papers you find at late night taco shops or seedy, shady, drowsed out jazz clubs—

Never acknowledge those that deliver the news
Sometimes they’re the devil in the messenger’s shoes
And sometimes they’re simply the leftovers that the cat dragged out…that someone else has yet been buried in the correct position, currently vacant, way out in left field.

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