Dwelling

~from 2012  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Cross-eyed    
shenanigans  
and itchy fingers  
bitch about luck,  
   
about that midnight  
shellacking    
down at the    
old school  
skell shack  
league-  
   
finally,    
the hours    
~draw    
to a sparking close...    
   
suckering the fool  
from a numbered peace,  
   
a four-walled feast    
of claustrophobic    
shit-for-brains  
behavior:  
   
what can be done    
but the work    
of spackled    
(& specious)    
sleepwalking?    
   
This dwelling...  
   
(this obsessive  
 compulsive-  
 counting bones  
 and juicing low)  
   
in this house  
where we lose  
a part...    
   
inside this mind  
where the quickening  
starts  
   
 (for all  
  we could    
  wager  
  on worse    
  than dwelling)  
   
and the night  
still ~draws  
to bleeding cease...    
   
awakens the fool    
to a numbered feast,  
   
praying for luck  
when he should have been  
counting on fingers.