humping through Trinh Son 2

we bury ourselves with the sunset so we may rise
with the dead each morning. grinning, like bastard angels
huffing ether from a plastic bottle, we flutter
and fall face first in pools of piss and vomit. stuttering,
scrambling to get perpendicular to the Earth, our Souls
spill out in giggles and dry heaves, like steam
from a sputtering teapot. the mist of dawn wraps
its arms around us, weaving through the pores
of our skin, eating at open sores,
dissolving scabs, and drinking our scars.
the disjointed illusion of God on His Horizon,
swirling in purple, orange, and pink
starts a steady stream of tears and mucus
down our frozen, blue cheeks, and breath,
as we know it, ceases to exist.



jw
2/15/09