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Poetry

Poetry

Furthest Point from Harwin

Tell me of the furthest point from Harwin where the basketball diaries burn in the arms of bleating catholic goats. What do my red lights and up-tight shadows reflect when this body, already addicted to the heroin I have never tried, blisters in the heat of microwaved kitty litter. Panties, like melted skittles in the discount bin at Foleys, don't show the soot 6 hours on highway 59 gives, except the red pair, pressed into the grease mid-tumble leaving the aqua-tread pattern zigzag black in the far right hand lane, stained where it tumbled the way the man on a bicycle caught between his medication and a fear of water played out in the North Dakota snow where junkies chew tobacco and guzzle old Milwaukee

Release the Basset Hounds and leave me at the level of their fangs where pushpins and credit cards have no power to deal me out at 3% over prime. The air-conditioner cycles off and I'm left with the taste of metallic pussy and a missile aimed at the heads of Chicano publishers, too short sighted to call it challenging.

On the Katy Freeway before the air-conditioning cycles back on I genuflect in front of a red Harley Davidson two exits south of the dirty bar where organists speak of Greek mythology.

Tomorrow is the promise of a paint by number Mona Lisa $7.95 plus tax at Wal-Mart where dying men living on social security and coupons point you towards snack cakes sold bulk

I have to cancel my policy before I lose the chance to live outside the law of large numbers, - insurance against having mixed feelings at death.

by Justin Olmanson

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read at your own risk...

discovered, lost and squandered

death

various people

prayers, hymns and questions

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