Lightning Rod's Dream #420

[Lightning Rod]

both of my left feet wish they were dancers
my blind eye sees better than the good one
the only hope is brain surgery
and I can't do it in the mirror

I'm spitting rasputin diamonds
one carat bb's
put your eye out and barely feel it
I'll have a sprig of lilac in my mescal

poetry is a tissue paper tsunami
vaccines have no effect, nor
is there a cure
just bodies washed up on the shore
derelicts and vagabonds
hitch-hiking to eternity

I use tobasco sauce for shaving cream
there is no cure
hell is the best place to be in winter
my career is waking up tomorrow morning
if the cops come, tell them you don't know me.

I think in my next life I will either be
a NASCAR driver or a figure skating violinist
I haven't decided which

movie stars and models are a bore
and millionaires have too much responsibility

next life?

or maybe I'll come back as
a brain surgeon or a plumber
you know, like learn a trade
anything but a poet

I met tesla in a urinal one time
he was sitting under the arc of the covenant
reading a newspaper.
haz-mat air fresheners

the last batch of crank I cooked
cost me four years
but all the junkies and junkettes
cheered when I came back meaner than ever

nothing like the smell of piss
and haz-mat air fresheners
to make you want to fight
my bodkin is bare naked
like a noose frolicking.

I remember the smell of ether
and homemade boys
eliminating beer
and reading graffiti
there is a cigarette butt
just under my eyelid

blindness can be defined as oxycontin
or an oxymoron limbaugh kitsch
not living in a Bradbury novel
with Britany and Paris
all the junkies and junkettes

My cell exploded in my ear
and that was lucky for me
AT&T doesn't bother me anymore

scat da lite fantastic
firecrackers in a vacuum
my baby got laigs
like skinny as the neck
of a ripple bottle
and my reggae forskin
tangled like dread in labia
lika tissue paper tsunami

it may be ripple on friday nite
but by sunday morning it's thunderbird
and haz-mat air fresheners
there is a cigarette butt
just under my eyelid
it feels like a Salem or a Kool

in prison I had a recurring dream
I was cooking a hundred dilaudids
in a saucepan
I would draw the shot up
find the vein
but I always woke up
before I could mash the plunger

[mnaz]

my dream goes high or low
long jump over the sea of tranquility
or shooting currents thru familiar hallways
highways spillways courtyards in such detail
never been there and yet so vividly

i can't do a proper reflection
musta bought into this trick glass loop
poetry is a leveraged paper missile

in the desert nearly chucked that phone
but if i got out it might tell me where i was
here and there and the other impostors
the dream seems better
it goes high or low

thanks LR
riffin, that's all.

[stilltrucking]

I am such a wussie
never brave enough
to stick a needle in my eye
just to get high

Excellent poem
my apologies for rambling over it.