Saturday Night

[saw]

armed with only a writing implement
I slayed all the dragons...paint brushes !
were daggers in the heart of darkness
where mythical beasts turned to cherubs
playing harp in a marching band of recovery

the art of healing lies
in the distractions of creation, when a man
can turn off the devil with a stroke
of Cerulean Blue, when a man injects ink
into the fiery exhalation of a stranger on his porch

when that man's mouthwash can silence the bad breath
with just the right words, when he finally understands
a decaying note in a reptilian scale, and chromatic lizards
and argyle snakes with their barbed-wire singing voices
rattle like harmless pets in a covered glass aquarium

lookin' for their next meal,
the beasts must go without the sustenance of madness
and the Komodo brain shrinks into little green talking geckos
left only to do the work of selling insurance to those with many fears
and the man in this process has escaped another Saturday night

and poetry and art save another lost traveler
negotiating a mind-field of un-detonated garbage

[saw]

the beasts are always hungry
they keep the edge honed
they balance the polka dots and puppies
they stir the cauldron of steaming tongue

[mnaz]

Incredibly hungry..

[saw]

voracious appetites
turn into poems from the east
to the west, the northern lights
the southern cross,
that rumbling in the stomach