If I were a poet I would be monumental Every page would spit venom on the reader’s unsuspecting soul I would stake out every corner of their heart Hinder their progress; race their pulse Let loose their desires and hold captive their pride and just cause’s Invisibly tamper with their consciousness Add to their suffering and malice Trample down all acts of charity Expose their thorns Strip away their inheritance and poverty Steal them from the community for rehabilitation Spir

I caught you beat Spitting whiskey at the stars And bawling tears on my neck Spinning jazz on my soul Screeching like mad-cats, Like all the sad drift, Turning headlights on the desert Picking through the wreckage Howling With my hands on your hips To hold it and keep it