Listening to Indiana Screams from the Ears of the Wind

As the coffee sits in the pot,
the brew cycle now over,
I add up promises, minus lies and
find that the sum equals gibberish.

As similar to the mumbles of a heroine on morphine or methadone
there’s an unaccounted essence of time and space. The kind
that materializes when masturbatory mothers march in,
slouched south.

Tonight a needle and spoon mix whiskey and java.
Time waits,
sailing around in my head,
for more rejection to attach itself to my body

like fall’s dying brown ivy at Wrigley Field.

I seem to have chosen the short part of
a broken wishbone perjury.