The Unforgiven
I pity the fools who choose
a life of servitude. My lake
submerges the veil chain
and breaks the leagues of links
to the ticking clock. I get
paid by my choice.
An unmarked bill waits
for the enterprising fingers
to snatch and grab the shallow
currency. I am not a fool.
I take the money and run.
I am a thief but not
a crook. My record is clear
as a blister squeezed, drained,
and removed from the moles of earth.
I am king and father to some
who I recruit as knights
and children to my infernal palace.
Grace is a heifer whose horns
were severed in a cattle call.
My lady is luck who is ready
for the chance to evict her boomerang
strain of justice where doom
for me infects gloom for all.
To blame me for every sin
conjures an ungodly spell
whose hymnal chant lulls
disbelief. My trance rings
and sings of flocks always
trapped in the forever of never.
Reno is good as a hot bed
of gin mixed with sin as a tonic
of happy juice with Las Vegas
as my heavenly haven and Miami
the chips and salsa of skin
with tanning the mildest form of flesh
as canvas. Los Angeles delivers the most
seedlings. A limb or bush in this
backyard conceals as it kills
its thirsty appetite for knowledge as the end
of innocence. To understand me is
to know I will never be happy.
