“Black or white, turn it on.
Face the new religion.” –Joe Strummer
Staring down the barrel
Of black and white, pointed at me
As I drive south to my farmhouse.
By my wife while I sleep on the couch
With my dogs in front of a fire my heart
Will stop. My ghost
Looking back down on the brick cottage
From white to black bars of a prison
Cell sliding and I’m pushed
To the ground. I look up, now my teeth
Like a sewer grate
As a crowd gathers around the sky’s door.
My face is an open textbook on the floor,
A chapter about how to give someone’s name
A black eye, a purple sonic sun
Falling into my open mouth
Where I eat dusk alive,
Washed down with the depths
Of the space surrounding it.
