the continuing story of the continuing storyteller

walden freeman

winter and fall
from above a new skintone
or tonedeaf nerves
gifted and grafted
of stainless steel wool
the sheeps march on
impervious to rusty joints
and oblivious to oblivion
and i, like the twilight before me
seek a hope more hot
and melting than the wicks
of every candle-turned-stick of dynamite
in our hemisphere

the day expires
and i beg to sleep
upside-down in your bedroom closet
doing my best vampire-in-a-coffin
imitation of the true meaning
of christmas
using your dead relatives' old leather jackets
as makeshift wings
i pounce

like a monotheistic religion's
first-in-command
commander-in-chief
getting tipsy off of his own son's blood
in cups too cracked to care for
after the fact

and we sit at the table
of the grizzled-veteran millipeed
of the centuries-long war
with the centipeeds
who, now an amputee,
finds himself looking more and more
like what he spent years trying to kill
and loving every second
in command of each modern religion
the weekend approaches and we
turn the televisions off
disappointed as the cliffhangers
hang their coats by the door
in the bar and try to intrigue
all other to-be-continued cliffhanger episodes,
but leave them wanting more
and as they hang off their every word

so, to conclude the life that has served
as a conclusion to universes beyond
any telescope's view of existence
god speaks in numerals roaming
and roman numerals cannot move
our hearts and minds and our toes
gangrene and inflamed
and engulfed in gulf wars
with water shortages
have to suffer
and keep hanging cliffside
waiting for a rebuttal
and having less and less legs to stand on

and i have sympathy
for every big business

i'll love you until i hate you