looking for a loophole
once i was beautiful
jesus hair falling behind—
burning blue like a storm
crazy for destination
now i borrow light
like the moon
overexposed like a bad photo
transistors shot—a bad radio
a formless phantom
composed of exhaustion
carved in the image
of isolation
dreaming of leaning
out over the river
from a ghostly railway bridge
prepared to sacrifice myself—to know
convinced the universe is a mistake
looking for an escape
a loophole—
that leads around god’s rules
the fall
i sense the acceleration
but don’t care
to stop the fall
to tired to stretch
far enough to bridge
the disconnect—
the slow, downward
drag of the wind
strangely comforting
back-floating—
red eyes locked
on the night sky
looking for confirmation
of something—
anything
to save me
from nothing—
everything
fully aware
of the smiling
motherfuckers who thrive
on my complacency
& applaud my stylish
deadly habits
~spring 2005~
sanctuary
night comes down
like a gate on a chain
sunset drains bloody
remains from gray clouds
thunder
rolls in the distance
like the falling
walls of jericho
a shadow
dressed in rain
moves along
a two-lane blacktop
searching both sides
of the road
for sanctuary
from the storm
overloaded dump-trucks
groan by, stoning
the stranger
& slinging gravel in the ditch
he feels the gaze
of cold-glass eyes
behind tilted
window shades
places where fear
accumulates
like dust
in dark corners
but there’s a light up ahead --
a country church
like a photo on a postcard
the people
out to greet him
& there stands
a holy man
bible in one hand,
& a rope in the other
--- db cox © 2004
supernatural fire
dim lights float
in cigarette smoke
a saxophone cuts
through the haze
like lightning
at sundown
screaming “fuck you”
to the sky
notes stumble chromatically
into impossible places
then somehow
slip out gracefully
a bebop poet
gone a little mad --
machine greased
with drugs & whiskey
to dull the edge
of feeling too much --
balanced on a ledge,
a terminal tightrope walker
lighting this murky space
with a supernatural fire
that burns for awhile
then goes cold
conjuring a vertigo
of living color
out of this black hole
of 3 a.m. sorrow
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