Got two more, very short.
There are 15 scorpions pressed apart with a stick used for
Stirring paint that I need to tell you about,
Couldn't tell you how they dwelled.
Haven't killed enough,
They emerged through the cracks in the block wall,
separating each box of this cro-magnon neighborhood.
I can tell you I wept, smashing sections
as they escaped, moving like those fuckers from alien flicks.
Anyway, it's been countless years
since I searched the yard perimeter.
Black light, a false beacon in the muted night,
A 9-mil nestled against my hip,
Bullet chambered to blast the skinheads
My sister told of, frantic, having driven the city all night
Among deadened asphalt synapses.
We wait for dawn's liminal thread
to offer blurred visions for sleep.
She described a battle between cops and neo-Nazis.
I perceived it as a singular and internal until somewhere
in the conflict
The house was injured, ruined and left as such.
This ruin never occurred.
It was a wreck
I'm embarrassed to speak on of a false band a quarter too far.
I want to be clear about the scorpions.
My wife crept behind me with her phone,
while I, among the apparitions of depression,
Released the safety and cleared the house of the nothing there.
Hateful, I hadn't killed anything.
[APPLAUSE]