knife

tendrils of smoke from spent ash
on icicle's examined waves of frozen drop,
i had seen the hooves thump across the desert that August day
and kick up spent rust
from the earthen floor of forbidden deserts.

now i howl
unlike Ginsberg's academic fame
made from popping uppers
in the flame of some sun
where he had forgotten battles and murder.

used to this
filthy Earth
i carried tattered flags as an outcast
and wanted nothing more than old rusted leather
so i could wipe off the blood from my boots
after they believed in a murder so fulminous
that i could not wipe the bulletholes from my memory

oh, lamenting incorporation of business,
it is because of a single word
that women lend their tragic breasts
and scoop up underlings without crying
for it is the same word
that men talk in false knowing tones
as they carry their score
past dark dumpsters
and onto remote Syrian torture tables
scorched with the marks of past dinners
paid in tribute to King Meth.

i once whittled a bow of yew
and found i couldn't fire even
on the son of a bastard
who would inherit all that blood
which pulses behind their fortress walls like oil
and works in sways in matters of currency's river,
toss those out
those dollars
throw them in their face
the one they wouldn't give you
so you could save some water
when the horses fled from gunfire
and left you all alone.