Hit Men for the CIA

Hit Men for the CIA

12 houses down, 10 feet apart,

junkie 25 years, needles and arms.

Expatriate hipsters, 

weighing heavy hearts,

reading work in progress,

reaching for the stars.

 

A jackel, a scorpion, 

A baboon headed man,

a paperweight, a pen knife 

he moved his hand onto my knee,

said, "You know you can."  

There was a loaded gun:

a metaphor cocked and fingered.

I'll tell you when I'm done.

 

A literary critic writes

calibrated hallucinogenic 

amphetamine addled kryptonite,  

competes for shelf space

with the three fingered man,

his hands in the air, 

standing naked in the spotlight. 

 

I'm stealing the past out of habit,

unleashing my dark side,

dancing naked in the moonlight,

hips moving to the ebb tide.

 

    cut up projects 

    montages after the break

    when our program continues

 

    cut up projects 

    montages after the break

    when our program continues

 

Things are not as they seem

the unbreakable has broken,

broken, shattered, distorted, shackled

turned inside out.

we're switching body doubles 

we're behind the magic 8 ball now.

It's time we learned to twist and shout.  

 

    The methods of disintegration

    have been useful to mom and dad.

        The methods of hallucination

        are useful to mom and dad

 

They were not what they seemed.

They'd been reborn at gunpoint.

It was impossibly irredeemable, 

and seemed to seal our doom.

 

But it ignited, in my imagination,

the murder which sleeps  

on my living room couch,  

reborn from an alabaster womb. 

 

    Make way and wait!

    Mom and dad were hit men for the CIA,

    Carbon copies are out of date.  

 

    cut up projects 

    montages after the break

    when our program continues

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