red fingernails tapping on a bar
I am a corpse, a hitchhiker,
body parts
on the side of the road
when I say night
tragedy swallows me
a black sheet of rain
lit up
by lightening
wrapped around a torso
my torso
like death, like a woman's
thighs, I am wet, a hitchhiker
stuck to the vinyl
seat of a car
in the shadows
wrapped in thunder
behind the driver
who shows me
yellow teeth when he laughs
and red eyes
in the mirror, I am thirst
picked up
on the highway, a reason to drink
the driver passes a bottle
to his brother, who grins
like a mad man
and sings off-key
Elijah
built like a barrel
of belly fat,
rolled in a tee shirt
passing the bottle back to me
and I'm a cock, wrapped
in a cunt, hurtled into the last moaning
requiem, a blistering howl
I tip the botle to the roof
and keep it there
savoring
a fiery drink
listening to rain
on the roof top
red fingernails
tapping
like a whore in a bar
tapping
impatient
I am a dead man, a corpse
body parts scattered
all over
the road
just like that
a sudden light
a screech of brakes
making a fist : Greg Howell
isn't as easy as it used to be
the fingers
and hands
are often stiff
decalcified bones
and two medical
opinions
and it's harder to write
the handshake
has grown softer
and so has other men's opinions
of me
making a fist
isn't as easy as it used to be
it's harder to shake it upwards
in anger
but easier to fold them together
in humility
