Dark hawken figures walken on my skies
target my mind broken weight full freight
train rakes needlepoint on my back track
eyes not even open like a baby rat that
smells the cheese vomited by red dead
mother twitching outside the dole hole
this was the night the toad was crucified
died screaming forgiveness from the tips
of its lips saying, “even the reptiles need
gods of a sort and how do you know what,”
since I work in the place where hell meets
the crack in the pipe; where the needle
sticks in the cement of my veins; where
my mind burns on the hot tar in Central
Square; where my heart busts through
the windows of your whore soul; that’s
where I live motherfucker; come to
my place anytime; don’t leave your
illusions at the door; we’ve all paid
dues in hell for opiate dream scream
with your mouth so wide open the
devil can creep in. Get down on your
knees to the one hanging on the cross;
even our sins are victims of their own.