Caine & Co.

When I wiped the white from my wide nostrils,
numbed my tonsils with a bitter, rich drip,
slipped into a sexier skin, sipping on Gospel
fragments, pulp bits of truth lay on my lips.
Smoke signals, symbols and signs for spiked soda,
eroded clothing, broken earrings and laughs
passing through skipping juke simple tunes, quota
met with wet livers, while noses sniff. Grass - greener
here - under brick and dim lights,sunless, and the smell of
armpit converses with the local daily passout alcoholic who asks your name (everyday), prefacing it with a trite gurglygiggle "he..hello!"...

and you,

twitchy and itching for another sniff
scratch at the Gospel bits that just STICK and

dammit!

These are the last things you want to think about (i.e. poverty, hypocrisy, immorality, the worthlessness of sitting on a swiveling stool speaking about genitals or politics or fist fights or being nostalgaic (in general)while you hate how you hate, despising the self that despises just to get ahead in life, damning yourself for those damning bits of truth still stuck to your lips...