DONNIE COX

blow it all away
--- for Brautigan

tiny voice
of the counter-culture
found-dead as hell
rotting on the floor
beside a bottle
& a .44-loser
in a one-man gunfight
against a deadly hand
caught unprepared
during those minutes
of the day & night
when nasty
black fingers
started to pull
at his dirty shirt tail
abandoned
by the hip crowd
who once waltzed
like children of hamlin
to his clever songs
searching for a little
fucking grace
in the frayed face
of sister suicide-
now
the forever hungry
cannibals circle naked
around his body
tearing away chunks
of another deserted son
no longer watched over
by the fickle
machine of mercy


nightwatch

in the gentleman’s
john-defunct exxon
hiding
out-of-luck eyes
hard as roman nails
bony back
to the wall
dead man
laughing
at nothing at all
shaky tones
falling
into a full-blown
smoker’s hack
bell-cracked
saxophone
rattling ‘round
the unholy sanctuary
top floor of hell
holding cell that smells
like a dress rehearsal
for the cemetery

dust-off

clean-collar commuters
peer from the cover
of stylish shades
taking secret comfort
in a pathetic apparition
wrapped
in an army overcoat
face down
in a pool of piss
baptized
purified
crucified
in the mute humility
of his own guilt
while inside crusty
rust-filled ears
distant city traffic
hums like a “huey”-
spectral medevac
searching for a soul
lost forty years ago
somewhere along
the mekong river