a poem by Dan Provost

Back With the Bones

It's not memory that's beaten.
It's loss of new experience.

Dancing with the outlaw does
not do it anymore

Nor being barred from the dive bars
or knowing that
you're so close to the grave.

I'm back with the bones, fist-fighting and
being angry with God

Rummaging through old cuts on my hands,
Sucking on scabs that never seem to heal

Old jaunts through tirades, tears of resentment
streaming down my face while I stagger up the hill
to a lesser-known den of evil.

Evil is always certain
and always ready

To make that final run into isolated catastrophe.

© by Dan Provost
 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #5 ~ September 2009