ax and blade
“the museum of pain doesn’t charge admission”
Out of dry desert sinkholes,
water flushed arroyo, they come
in windshield-down jeeps,
ATVs jury-rigged with high
intensity lamps, new blood sport
hunting the Milagros on the run,
those who are jacklit in no cover
washes, alkaline plains, low ridge
flats, whites of their eyes targets
for infrared scopes, heads exploding
on free range shooting contact like
over ripe melons spewing brain matter
like seeds, sackcloth shirts and blouses,
blood leeched, peppered by killshots,
one is never enough. Hunting aid
signal flares and helicopter searchlights
scan this place they are forced into
once hell is full and there is no place
else to go, these defenseless packs
of human game, each scalp taken by
axe and a blade, a trophy to be savored
back in places these patriots of freedom
and justice for all call home, these
sovereign states of lost causes and
hate crimes that have not be codified yet.
Even their children have been branded
by their creed; today’s viral youth,
tomorrow’s parents of the damned.
He was on a slow pub crawl
from ennui at noon to death in
the afternoon. Sat slowly drinking
half pints of stout as if measuring
the last, bitter ounces of his life
a mouthful at a time. Money was
no object given the wad he extracted
bills from to pay for each round leaving
only loose, small change on the bar
after each transaction, each glass emptied
and refilled as if placing unspent bills
on the wood was further planning
much too far in advance than what he
was he was willing to allow for.
Though he was on record as saying,
“halfs are a pussy drink. A real man
goes all the way.” Drank hard and
fast as if there were no tomorrow,
no future past, to alter his head back
plunge into insensibility, into this place
where he was going now, a place no
one ever returns from.
The Kevorkian Cocktail
Every night a new bar, the same
bad attitude, same lethal drink.
Always freaking the locals talking wild
and crazy, a new lie for every
occasion, a different sucker punch
for the unwary.
What he called fun was the stuff
of supermarket tabloid headlines
after sweet talking lonely heart ladies
and bent young things with more
bad habits than a cloister full
of defrocked, pregnant nuns.
Ordered what he called A Double
Ought Seven, ”A Russian vodka
martini with a large measure of
Beefeater’s Gin with Yellow Chartreuse
instead of Vermouth. No substitutions.
I’ll know the difference. And stirred,
not shaken. I hate bruised cocktails.
That’s pussy juice. I’ll add my own
Fentanyl.” The latter said as if it were
a joke everyone would laugh about later.