we are the drowned gods, those few granted sight through broken bottle lenses, discovered destiny on sawdust floors, and salvation fucking on used and abused felt.
Denizens of moral drought, deft deciders painting the town blue, upside down and true, we lie to no one but ourselves and those who will listen –
So many tales spun from a broken bottle wrung dry,
Meandering down abandoned alley’s ripe with the smell of previous revelry,
A half empty bottle of cheap rum or 40 oz to divination,
The poets and oracles of the gutters, the lost and forgotten river folk,
Children of redolent rain, rotgut and regret.
And each dawn brings a fresh prophecy, the meaning lost and mired in whiskey whittled wishes,
Truth on the edge of the toilet, staring up into fiery fluorescent lights,
When the meaning of life is no question or statement but rather floating paradox –
If we knew would we want to? And so it passes:
Bled dry and hung from ancient gallows,
A word to the wind and whispered wishes whisked away at dawn –
Even memory fades, with time and the wanton washing of sand on skin.
Sometime near the break, when the dunes walked and waited, I stood in the middle of town and
watched the wooden beams of my past erode.
Empty streets and a town of twenty, silent statues testament to past faith and trust.
Past.
Stood clenching broken glass, the blood dripping from strained fingers to stain the sand, mirror masked and forgotten.
Dust devils like erstwhile sentries swirling about, whisking old memory through my hair and thoughts.
And feared.
Seen at the edge of town, golden locks in the absent breeze, taunting what was left.
A hint, a new whisper and the glint of truth buried in shimmering blue pools just below the bangs.
Purgative passion and the ensuing catharsis…
Whipped by wind and formless desire, countless melted away, and the bleak after burn was gone – Wrapped in some new shroud,
And at the horizon through the whipping winds She stood, midst horror and hurricane,
With a promise on her lips.
The Bacchanalian 