Snake Oil Salesman

With charisma and shrewdness you can sell nothing to everyone, 

until they finally wise up chase you out of town. 

You are a snake oil salesman.

You could charm the orgone out of a cobra. Not just tranquilize the serpent with your hollow flute-melody, but make it writhe in misled convulsions of ecstasy--

much like what you did to me.

Our love was counterfeit, 

much like the synthetic heroin we sniffed and swallowed. 

You had me, snake oil glistening in your hair, venom oozing from your palms. 

You used to tell me about riding the railways, living the life of El Vagabondo 

and every time I’d hear your song it would stir up 

an orgasm of hope and enthusiasm 

for us and our wayward, unorthodox marriage-mirage. 

After every Une Petite Mort, every little death when my body lay calm and shivering, 

you would bask in a methadone quiver 

coming off the high of a lie 

about the grandiose-what-could-be, 

and every orgasm would be one climax closer to death. 

The dream died, you’ve left town. Gone to push another possibility to some other young undeserving woman who believes in quack doctors, love, and snake oil.

Just Shit

In the morning

I remove creamy panties,

soiled by the night spent alone.

I have a bad case of smokers’ curse,

stepping out into the cold,

chasing air of some sort of substance,

instead

I fill my ribs 

with something fleeting and futile,

coughing up infinite phlegm

and exhaling wisps of nothing.

Sometimes

its satisfying to look back down into the toilet

and confirm that there is 

something that testifies for

your existence,

even when that something is 

Just Shit.

At night

I dress my wounds

unwind my bandages,

tally the aches in my heart,

tend the sores on my skin,

swallow horse pills.

Crawl under the covers, 

knowing that I am already not ready 

to get out of bed.