The Oddsmakers and Their Cardboard Homes

Sitting in a field in the Northeast ventricle of a sinking country.
Just drifting like dead weight
through the capillaries of the American suburbs.
Capsizing in the dead of Autumn.
A million sad square miles falling into the sea.
Plates shift and its belly growls.
It grumbles like a beggar's belly.

I'm not afraid to go under.
I don't fear what's below,
that's where I come from.

When your will to live
and your tattered sense of optimism
finally do seize and atrophy,
don't just let them fall off
into the black eternity.
Smash the motherfuckers under your boot.
Snuff them.
Right then and there.
Drag them to the river
and wave goodbye as the current
carries them off to the furnace
behind the mountains.

Time to set the world on fire.

I sit with the vibrations-
they rattle my organs to sludge.

Just a few silent minutes to my thoughts.
The sun explodes,
sending jagged slivers of blood-orange
across the sky.
Like used daggers or envious bolts of lightening.
The clouds have turned to white coals;
dense billows of death-carbon bleeding from
massive gut wounds
like stuck pigs.
Napalm showers obliterate the treeline,
hillsides and small mountains.
Tidal waves black oil
and gasoline bury the coasts.
Wolves and snakes lap it up.
The locals wait with buckets to collect their fortunes.
Payday never comes.
Not this time.

I sit alone in my field
like a disheveled maniac
ripping blades of dead grass with my fingers
and
whistling my favorite song.

I am still so in love with my time
and my experiences
and what I have learned.
They can't touch me.
Never.
Not even at the
dwindling twilight of our worldly existence.