For Mary Leary
The cracked world strangely abstract, crows eat the petals of morning
Flowers panic in the window box
Hummingbirds under the eave
Xanax morning calm without peace
I probably should meditate, but WTF—this works
A gathering of thieves, friends looking for Xanax in the bathroom
Invisible on the balcony
Nicking my hash, drinking my blood
They came to prop me up
Then stole my stash, “suck it up pigface”
Later a Las Vegas Cocktail open mic colorless as the dry heaves
I hear Jimmy Jazz in my head:
“Fuck you and you and you and you if you call this is a poetry reading!
This is not a poetry reading!”– Ugly grey dog balls poetry
Wingless noise banging a toy piano poetry
Butt-crack poetry– Taking a shit is more creative
Than what some drool over into mocha macchiato.
Just throw some glitter on it, stick it to the frig with the rest of the brain leak-
My Mom would hate this poem, it’s all I’ve got right now.
My grief is driving me to java, but wait, some entertaining genius
May pop up out of the deep
It’s all about the art of self-expression, isn’t it? Well? Isn’t it?
Give ’em hell in heaven, Mom!