ALAN CATLIN
MIDNIGHT COWBOY
Driving as if there
were no tomorrow,
no speed limitations,
no restrictions, two
cold roadies popped
in the cup carrier,
another between his
legs, Bob Seger
cranked in the wall
to walls, 20 ought
20’s in the gun rack,
don’t mess with a man’s
home, the cabin of his
truck, don’t fence him
in, riding through Texas
longhorn prarie wild
fires, four burning sheets
to the hot summer wind,
all he needed to complete
his personal picture show
was blood leaking down
tempered glass.
KAMO KILLERS FOR KRIST
The slogan on his beat
fatigues was about as
messed up as he was,
unable to stand in one
spot curbside bus
stop, listing to port
like some kind of human
Lusitania taking on water,
about to spontaneously
combust, all the passengers
inside screaming for their
lives, hoping to get out
before all was lost.
HOME
They weren’t in hell
but in a place next door
neighbors to fucked out
crack whores, starving
artists so thin their veins
had nothing to rest against,
nearby all the junkyard
punks sold short by doped
out pimps, exterminating
angels three quarters of
the way to nowhere, a few
dollars and an arrrhythmic
heartbeat away from Death’s
well marked door, theirs was
the kind of place you hung
signs in front of that said,
“Welcome Door to Door
Salesmen, Missionaries,
Peddlers of all kinds” because
you knew no one was crazy
enough to go there.