Weary Tombstone Blues

There are days that exist, when the grave begins tugging
On pant legs, and reminders abound that the chilled teeth
Of some nights will leave more than just the body cold. Those
Are nights that Plath’s warm oven answer begins to make sense.

These are the times when an Angelheaded Hellcat blazing a blue
Streak of frenzied chaos, and a Giggling Fountain of Youth whose
Crooked smile holds more laughter than a million mischievous
Monkeys, take time to tug at my tired bones, marching arm in arm
Across the world. Away from the chattering of neon lights melting
Plastic Kens and silicone Barbies, out past manicured neighborhoods
Housing slumbering victims who sit staring blankly at screens,
Glimpsing vacant, make-believe lives far more real than theirs,
Up onto over-traveled highways beat flat long before Dulouz
Became legend, and we have Cash preaching the virtues of walking
The line while the old Chevy hangs on and labors for breath.
Wild eyed adrenaline-fueled rides always ending flat on backs, resting
On grassy hilltops, watching as the unseen hand of God
Tattoos brilliant freckles on the negro flesh of the universe.

These are the nights, lying between two old souls who spill
The unspoken secrets of unknown tomorrows, glossing my eyes
With a fresh coat of paint, keeping tombstones at bay, and Death
From pulling on my coat about an appointment left unkept.