Hemingway Hijacked My Calligraphy

pens and swords and time heals all

but life isn't a sitcom that resolves in 24 and a half minutes

the blood in my ink coagulates on regurgitated

words that burned truth into the lies they spun out of denial

all the while looking for the spirits to calm the witch

or the devil that wants his due but what has he done but spit in my eye

words evaporate before hitting the page and I squeeze the bladder

that pours through the tip that was meant to show me inside out

it showers me in acid rain sprays that try to bleach me into position

but I cannot contort into anything but my lazy non-conformist ways

liquid courage, liquid treasure, liquid pleasure

liquid hangover afternoons that taste like I ate carcass as my last meal

there isn't enough alcohol to blind me to the reflection of flayed emotion

I leave in my wake at every sunrise curtain call

my murderous eyes paint time in lines that cackle and frowns that

carry too generous amounts of pain, disdain, and disappointment

verses turn fragmented lies in bad grammar and words that

pretend to be sentences with no structure

I dig the fountain pen through the paper of my eyes hoping this time

the words will stick and someone, somewhere will hear them scream

clawing through my cheeks bleeding lines in truth that looks like

bad stitches and a puke bucket by the bed

my tongue slices in rusty blades where tetanus would be a reprieve

from the truth I sling like ninja stars...unseen

I read Hemingway and hate it but it turns up in my broken thoughts and inability to escape broken perception

I read Bukowski and flip off the world in Fireball or Patron, yes,

tonight it is the Patron in chrome that soothes the soul if not quiet the mind

But if my pen bleeds invisible words and I forgot how write through all the typing, then how am I to say "screw you" in intelligible jibberish

farewell inkwell blues and hello black lines of misconstrued regret and angles that make me remember I forgot how to use a protractor

the light above the reading chair flickers on and the open bottle remains so

one shot to fifteen, but who's counting by yourself

Hand lettering my love in calligraphy on a heart requires to pass by

feelings in slow waves weighed down by a shot glass blurring fragments into truth.

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