combing the dawn of all its night
sorting for light in the pile of night there

oh, the sensible man knows
there’s less light in night
a million times over more light in day

but we are possessed
and this dark fire makes us
hunt light in night, compels us to say

it’s not how much light
you’ve got from the night
but knowing the way
you’ve made the night pay

Shot him again,
shot him straight through the heel,
then mocked him, asking,
“How did that make you feel?”

Cut off his ear,
savored blood’s pour and glisten,
held it to the shrink’s mouth,
said, “Let’s have us a listen.”

“Give me a bon mot
from what’s left of your breath,
one last nugget of wit
before I send you to death.”

The poor dying shrink
can’t make reason or rhyme
so he points to the clock,
tries, “We’ve run out of time?”

Tank says to the doc
“Oh, not we, doc. Just you.”
Sticks eyelids to eyebrows
roughly with Krazy Glue.

“Here’s a little secret
between you and I.
when I kill a man I always, ALWAYS
look him straight in the eye.”

“I want to see his last look,
him seein’ it’s not the Grim Reaper,
but me, Jethro ‘Tank’ Nixon
standing there as death’s keeper.”

“That’s why if you’ve read this
real close like you should
you’d know I ain’t never killed Henry Gutterman -
he died face down,
two shots to the BACK of the head,
wearing a hood.”

2
Parole Denied.

We were with friends at a dinner
dining at their posh country club,
when a few harmless martinis
turned me into quite the sad schlub.

After thrice sick like I’m sixteen,
after my men’s room convulsions,
strode straight – BANG! – into a clear glass door,
and felt the whole room’s revulsions.

“Are you OK?” one friend asks me
as I slink back to our table,
offers a ride to the station
if I’m not yet sober or able.

I pilot a green olive Nautilus
through the empty martini sea.
pop up a pimento periscope
but just see old stupid me,
drunk not from vodka
but from amplification,
those little words on the bottles
“Warning: DO NOT mix alcohol with this medication.”