Five Bullets

Venturi Ave.

 

five bullets

spool,

gone,

give back:

four up in airs—

nobody asks,

nobody cares—

with god up-counting prayers,

four bullets up in airs,

as a high-schooler,

 

she moans

from a mouth—

blood

from a vein,

a very ambitious vein

 

all aflame—

so much

the length it took

to stage,

day in and day out,

night after night,

stage by bombed-out stage,

 

graze salty lips—

irony is

somewhere in shacks off shore,

lungs the chest with gore

given to everyone,

choking on pretense: I love our gore

 

arced back

and courts

of ears,

torn the

trimmings

left on floors

 

toward,

searching, wavering lights—

toward things,

wandering ones,

search the very same,

taken, oh, too long

 

rarely known,

someone else’s grip

to held knees, struck fast,

asphalt burns skin and bone

so torn

 

pray a god

or whatever—

hope, she’s listening,

 

least-cares;

she’s not

caved into it

of a mind, of me:

a mosque of self-interest

 

a novena of lost-darling

and broken-hearted dead ends,

dog-eared love letters

I’ve written

and the ones, I write

only god I’ve known

 

wandering of heart

to a heart,

 

every heart

worth salt

encouraged

broken-backed,

poisoned water

 

obscure, stagnant tears

on tepid soulless shorelines,

nothing but roots,

knotted and red

to remember the sad

trapped, dirty whorls

of the land,

given-on to left,

a heart,

as bled.

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