I think that if I hit it big I'd
live it all over again.
The same empty rooms in the same empty southern towns
out of place and pitiful,
head full of spirits,
window shopping graves.

Lying fetal,
cheek pressed to the floorboards
death running up the walls
death running up my spine
playing chess with anguish
delaying endless days of
inconsolable
sobbing.

I'd bury my face in THAT blood bathed grass
searching for a final taste of you,
eyeing remnant shards and metals
darkly willing the same evisceration.

Its been the same grey sky since
that day in May. I'll find where they laid you to
feel my fingers worm in the dirt
that swallows you like a serpent
routine and callous.

This is my penance for survival,
driving needles into my eyes and
fire into my mouth,
my guts in flames
shouting the devil
no one remembers
but I do,
I do,
I
do.