red fingernails tapping on a bar

I am a corpse, a hitchhiker,
body parts
on the side of the road
when I say night
tragedy swallows me
a black sheet of rain

lit up
by lightening
wrapped around a torso
my torso
like death, like a woman's
thighs, I am wet, a hitchhiker
stuck to the vinyl

seat of a car
in the shadows
wrapped in thunder
behind the driver
who shows me
yellow teeth when he laughs
and red eyes
in the mirror, I am thirst
picked up

on the highway, a reason to drink
the driver passes a bottle
to his brother, who grins
like a mad man
and sings off-key
built like a barrel

of belly fat,
rolled in a tee shirt
passing the bottle back to me
and I'm a cock, wrapped
in a cunt, hurtled into the last moaning
requiem, a blistering howl

I tip the botle to the roof
and keep it there
a fiery drink
listening to rain
on the roof top
red fingernails
like a whore in a bar

I am a dead man, a corpse
body parts scattered
all over
the road

just like that
a sudden light
a screech of brakes
making a fist : Greg Howell

isn't as easy as it used to be
the fingers
and hands
are often stiff
decalcified bones
and two medical
and it's harder to write
the handshake
has grown softer
and so has other men's opinions
of me

making a fist
isn't as easy as it used to be
it's harder to shake it upwards
in anger
but easier to fold them together
in humility
Jim Benz
Enkindled Muse : Ernest Williamson III