SCARS

Dying stars have no direction.
Wonderful, if you can
get past the hangovers with some  
pill-popping protection. Bottles and  
dried-out dishes
in your kitchen transform  
wishes when you awaken.
Thought you were taken when  
you weren’t here.
 
Change has always been easy for you.
Something locked in your arms?
 
Side streets at the waterfront stay quiet,  
storefronts close early, churches fill like  
the courthouse on that day; you had everyone’s  
attention. Do you think of that?  
The way you dressed in your  
Sunday best. What have you created?  
Dismal concoctions; such mess
with baseball bats and things like that.
 
It was later, the danger, when
your muse became your weapon.
 
Money ruins conversations.
Conversations about money ruin friends.  
It’s not art! I’m no critic but you don’t get it.
We have an impact with no answers.
I have questions I won’t ask; hollow
in demise and your criminal cancer.
 
Lurkers find joy in the misunderstanding, not  
necessarily the success or the detailing;  
still in the solving (though you will never call
that success). Genius, for you, is in the failing.
Here it is: you’re free while
the moon wanes and waxes,  
something’s wrong with your life
and it’s not only your fucking back taxes.