Death In Cornelius

Through the open crook of the door
there were moths in the porch light
through my soul as it shifted in dark twilight
to breathe about all those babies
who got killed
in that womb,
the hairless and clean murderers.

I awoke to an explosion outside
the guns were drawing down airplanes from the sky
and all that I could smell
was that perfume
as if I were in some blind cowardice.

Last night
the television turned into a triangle
and one of the speakers blew
as they ran through the thoughts of war
with Putin's box
held up close to the laser system
of communications
translated through sound with mirrors
and then I knew
that the only things I could do that werent doomed
were to make messes
that smelled like some perfume
as wax and white and wine,
unlike my old friend Raoul
who tried to get through life by being clean and kind,
that dead and drunk old fool.

There is a man
speeding through the I Five
on meth
and inching closer like a killer
in need of a shave
as the radios blare
and allow him through
when the Doors pick up on the tunes
he feels nothing but other people's sense of doom,
for I was annointed once by his knife in my neck
and a visit from a brothel
that he patroned like the bar,
only I stayed out back while he slayed
what was left of human cognizance.

One day my health turned out the window
and produced a half poem,
I was laying in blood
as think as milk
that said to me
only go homeward
through those brambles and thickets
where others had annointed their guns there,
if it were heaven
then it made a Christian sense
out of death as waxen red as wine