I’m bound with indigo irons,
peppered in ancient, ochre rust.
Asleep or awake,
every flamingo sunset vomits up another inky star rise and twilight,
its hues cobalt, lead, mercury;
white noise a drone
against the hum, clang, and clatter of locks, gates, and guards.
Locusts and chains.
They leave plague, infection, scars;
wide, deep, lasting:
a schism in the abyss in the bowels of salvation.
These are desert glaciers, silent bombs, virgin hookers, reasonable religions.
I claim this yoke,
plastered in the wet earth;
my likeness a morbid statue.
Whose years have extinguished all the fires of the heart:
Bring them to this valley of victims, this canyon of crooks.
Bring them to their criminal education,
I am the resident intellectual,
drunk on Stockholm Syndrome;
comedian, local celebrity.
I am the yardstick against which all else is measured:
A novel record; endless lies.