When nailing down eternity two pieces of wood will do bound together by dusty centurions on shit duty.
Try also iron nails in a bottle of piss with fishhooks, sulfur, and the dirt from a murderer’s grief-less grave dug from the dirt patch behind the green cemetery
not good enough for a proper fence but bound by torn green tarp shrouds instead tacked haphazardly to decayed chain link.
Golden Sexuality sits by an open window his hair shining, his lean legs crossed. He considers the hills wearing their shadowy green the glacier-strike lake they curve into born cold, gone balmy, rippling life.
He remembers stag chases trysts in the leaves—the fleshy shock and shudder discovering exposed roots with his bare back.
He sinks his consciousness into the water the fingertip tendrils of his god-form first
followed by the instinctually flexed shoulders still warm from the running catch hollow chest where the feral heart echoes root-wounded back crossed legs golden, shining hair.
The Star is the center. All Things revolve around it—the Room, dimly lit—the flashing Optics—gilded mirrors that Turn on time—doors pulling Themselves open and closed— Gears, wheels, sprockets, Springs—gods, humanity— All dizzy things.
We are the gods of piss and bile— dead skin that flakes from the body mingles with dust and sweat makes a sweet filthy paste worn in the groin and under the breasts.
We are the gods of ashes— rendered fat that drips from a wide-eyed sacrifice, pristine bone, survivor of the fire, that glints and pings against the grinder blade makes the stuff for sausages.
The croupier god comped me a suite at The Palace, (offseason), and led me through the hallways personally, making smalltalk, explaining how the elevators work, keeping a steady pace while his scuffed rake dangled from a black elastic loop sewn custom into the lining of his white suit jacket. He opened the coded door for me, (first try), deciphered the thermostat, unstuck the drawers, programmed the remote to new, in-house channels, and turned the well-dressed bed down.
He said, “This luxury is where you lie.”
He handed me a gold card with my name embossed, black laurel in the upper right corner framing a female silhouette with an EZ-Read magnetic strip on the backside hovering over a hotlist of company-owned joints.
He said, “This is how we feed you for free.”
He strummed his swarthy fingers over an orderly row of three-score and ten play-worn purple checks arranged in an open, unfinished wooden box lined in remnant green felt and set on top of the empty honor bar.
He said, “And these? These are a very good start.”
-M. Ashley
As of today, this poem is ten years old. Crazy crazy crazy. Happy New Year everyone!
We didn’t see—we sensed him Black hair, caramel skin, dressed in blue and black Lovely voice, petite man, graceful hand Magically he opened the cake case from the front
Black hair, caramel skin, dressed in blue and black Delighted ladies sighed in surprise Magically he opened the cake case from the front He did it for the delighted ladies’ sighs
Delighted ladies sighed in surprise He said he’d die if he had to… He did it for the delighted ladies’ sighs …Go in from the back every time
Purple kangaroo wine, cheap and bitter Gratitude shouts louder than a flash flood warning Climax withheld for one notch less drunk than this Red solo cup abandoned on the windowsill
Gratitude shouts louder than a flash flood warning Half full of wine–collecting rain Red solo cup abandoned on the windowsill Pajamas and flip flops in a tangle by the bed
Half full of wine–collecting rain God’s body happens where lightning strikes something Pajamas and flip flops in a tangle by the bed Only one window opens wide enough