Running Around With My Head Cut Off

A mind full of lies to unlearn
becomes being mindful of the energy burn

and there ain’t nobody here but us chickens, so

I’m feeling cocky enough to
reference my deep cut competition
down in the dank to peak or beak
this poetic language couched in blade & pain…

we know all that glitters is
bloody good fun-
a spaz, a smoke, a sight
but here there be
choking on broken bones
in Styrofoam boxes
sparking a spray,
                               a spurt,
                                            a start
from the dust & ease in its normal
(pathological) state of grease…

a cackling caw from the law
and a gristly sheen in the green

and there are moments when even the grit is mincing,
always seen {before you can see} preened
and shining on like a slimy smile from squawking miles
of flashlight beams cutting through black pools in parking lots
on thick summer nights into formidable lockstep
labels forcing slips and subconscious choices
into chittering cages that are never
high enough to peruse the fading fight

fully, or to the best of our ability
at scratching dinner from the dirt
as confessions on atrocious acoustics
peak & beak at the slow, steady wade
through a dank slaughterhouse
number out of reach-

through a fear of crowds and enclosed spaces
I have decided to make a break for the light
{or death} I resolve to make
this endurance my perpetual rebellion, always

(and just between us chickens)

there’s a mind full of lines to yearn
being mindful of the
energy burn.