The air is drunk

with unforeseeable events

and an infected hangnail’s golden glow

I sit on the couch

sewing together my flesh,

singing Sinatra out of tune

as the afternoon lingers

like a painful pimple

eager to explode,

as unwanted as a nuclear holocaust

on a sunny day

All is lost—

holes in our pockets,

frost in our hearts

And poor art trapped in a plastic coffin

that suffocates below the Astroturf

(It’s here we scream and pull at our hair,

unaware we are bald and aging)

How I wish the day was simple—

a fair game of war and peace

At least things wouldn’t feel so dull

I would deem the day acceptable,

shout it from the rooftop

with my sugar-coated tongue

I would kiss the Devil

for His heavy metal lullabies

that send me into fitful sleep

And the next day greets me

with unbridled bliss

at the tip of certain ecstasy