The Briny Deep of Bandaid Bitters

I'm seven years washed ashore

from the briny deep

of bandaid bitters,

cowering, covering wounds laid open

with no numbing libations

to salve my psyche.

I've learned to comport myself

with field dressings

of Effexor and fear come crawling,

keeping at bay

all that burns

like salt water on a nerve

exposed to the ocean breeze.

sunday funnies

The cold gun metal

pressed against my temple

is trying to tell me something,

perhaps.

Her razor soft warning

sliced into my longing

is worth a gun's chilled muzzle,

almost.

The acid washed Levis

wrapped around her leaving

are fading into the ether,

a ghost.

The empty bottles

of Grey Goose and Effexor

are dancing on the ceiling

of my dreams.

At least until the barrel

full of monkeys and munitions

has warmed to its calling

in a white hot flash of brilliant blue.

The Throbbing Numb

My mind is awash

in the joyful filth of thought

until a wayward worry

scrubs it glassine clean.


I can't write my way

out of this spic 'n span,

hard as diamond

without the sparkle;

I can't think my way

clear of this sanitary muck,

a throb keeping time

to the beat of my breath.

----

Life for me

is but a raw nerve exposed,

torn asunder

lest stoned to stasis,

holding at bay

the fever and flavor,

baking in nothing

but the throbbing numb.