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Winner's Fiddle

Lana woke me by the lake

from a thousand miles away,

courting—begging for LA

when all I wanted was to know

that my eyes were not profound liars.

The reeds and briars sharpened

beneath my tears and blinked-back fog;

Damn the black dogs

and the mourning—do I let

such horning hell carve out my insides?

I found myself awash in leeches,

fondant endives from the store;

you know it—from before,

when I drove but never left home,

looked up but never twirled the stars

above this dome where everything is still.

I’ve had my fill of emptied nothing.

This concave parody of loving—

his tongue is warm, but his teeth

are sharp.

Lucifer may dress in drag

and stolen harps, but I know a bastard

when I see him. No longer dreaming.

Pray no bubbles start to form,

that dying pressure won’t deform my arteries.

I brush the brimstone from my knees—to Hell

with drinking bees in closet corners

as my throat takes their pulsing stings,

as I let decent everythings slide off of me.

Rid me of oil-slicked apathy, this pearly numbness on my skin;

I am finished with ending my beginnings

and clinching middles.

I take up her anthem on my winner’s fiddle.

Tilt burns the balconies; in their ashes brittle,

I begin.


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