The One Who Devours

Ai-laau rose from Kilauea, sulfuric and starved,
blackened tendrils of smoke kissing his ashen face.
Smiling as scorching lava rushed from his hands, shooting
forth from the volcano and rolling through the hills,
he laid waste to the Island again.

He gnashed the charred trees as he surfed
the lava waves, filling his belly and enjoying the scent
of cooked human flesh. Watching for a moment,
Ai-laau marveled as flecks of crisp human skin
floated through the air, beautiful cinders melting
into the molten liquids.

Natives feared him, a soulless monster murdering
their brothers and sisters, making the island craggy
and dead.

While Ai-laau took pleasure in devastation,
sated his hunger by ripping foliage from the Earth,
masticating roots and branches and fruits,
he knew that creation demanded sacrifice.

Humans were too short sighted, too sentimental,
to think of the greater good. They saw only violence
as his fires spread through fertile fields.

There is no creation without destruction;
Flowing lava carved paths into the Island,
releasing calcium and potassium and magnesium
over time, enriching the soil, allowing water to traverse
the craters it left behind.

Death was the sacrifice, a simple demand
of the old god. Ai-laau, monstrous as he seemed,
violent as he was, left new life to nourish
the remaining peoples, a balance for the tolls
he demanded.

Fucked Me Completely

They say one mans trash
is
Another mans
treasure.
My trash
Is stuffed with cotton balls
Caked in dry pink medicine.
Q-tips that
Whiff
of polyethylene-
Glycol and ninety
Percent isopropyl alcohol.
Spent safety
razor blades
Dull as 90’s re-runs
Of shit
sitcoms
with laugh tracks
That play dead
Middle of
Scorched summer
days
where
the good ones
Were better off
Making hay. .
Used needles
I couldn’t be bothered
to recap
For the kids that frolic
And forage
In the landfill.
Empty pill bottles that once contained
Hopes, and hedges
And hungers
I can’t even name.
Death threats
Unsent
But thoroughly imagined
And loosely planned
And bills paid far in advance.
Expensive lotions
Containing polysyllabic
Novel FDA non-approved
ingredients
I won’t ever be able to prove
Made any fucking
Difference.
Pharmaceuticals that tell stories
Autobiographies
Can’t and
won’t.
Amazon receipts for
Empty anticipation
That came free with
Useless tangible contents
Of boxes
I now have to deal
With.
And
letters
To
You
That fail to do
Justice
to the myriad
of ways
You’ve fucked me
Completely.

Accountants Fuck Like Numbers (Ode to Frank Zappa)

Voracious penny stocks work in teams with the jowls of thrashing piranhas.
Accountants fuck like numbers: arch their backs into a 9, slap the thighs with a bashful 3,
thrusting a 7 from murky heavens like a man of growth caught in mustache gardens.
Rolls of water buffalo snot fashioned into snakeskin wallets, a brinkman’s economy 
full of hot button pleasers.  Squirters and screamers from behind surprise party couches.
Jumping out to meet that tracker, in the scope of his tranquilizer gun.  No one speaks 
of fair fights anymore, you take on the numbers and bruise with the snapping chain link.  
That acapella hum of foxy green electrical boxes charged with fantasizing away  
the cumbersome hours.  The way the mayor’s wife always spoils her ballots in the bedroom.
Combing out the knots of her hair in a manic wrecking ball fever.  Her peach cobbler manners 
and that nervous tick that forces her to duck her head at inopportune times.
Like a pawing jab in line for the Cruiserweight strap, 5 rounds into a faulty gameplan
the bucking gym rats can hardly fathom.  Money is lost – numbers with consequences.   
Garrulous homewreckers pile into cars and filter out along the avenues.
I promise to revisit my Huck Finn as soon as I get home – huck   huck    huck!
Like that city boy huckster Holden Caulfield, but forever in the bowels 
of the Mighty Mississippi.

Bruises

It a strange feeling, I’d call it a little odd
Not being guilty over someone else’s bruises that you caused

I broke your ribs on purpose
And with each bone that I break
I know you’ll think of me
Every time your laughter aches

While I’ve never been one to enjoy licking my own wounds
I find that your pain tastes pretty good

So I’ll pull vulnerability from you like baby teeth
I’ll lick the blood from your gums
I’ll pick your scabs and drink
Confessions bleeding from your tongue

Words laced with equal parts
Of desire and cyanide
You slip out of consciousness like it’s clothing
But couldn’t forget me if you tried

Oct 9-23

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