Shade
when I return
to you
worn
and bedazzled
laughing
in the
roar
beyond
and calling
that
indemnity
there
the sky
will unlock
the rest
of it
and if this
digresses
into the preening
of a literature
brat
then I’m
not that
worried
about it
really
because
even now
bleeding
heart
shit
sells
and if
in small
didactic
turns
we arrive
at the
cemetery
gates
and maybe
we’re hungover
shame
in our
steps
that’s poetry
and losing it
in the sun
is the kind
of singing
I do
and I like
existential
cinema
the arc
of misdirection
social
pageantry
is a way
of behaving
poorly
but a true
artist
doesn’t work
for free
though
a clean
desk
is true
leisure
I won’t
fight it
a plastic
miniature
is a real
muse
and muses
aren’t a thing
to revel
better to
blah
blah
blah
find
rare onions
in a dark code
I already
have enough
bad ideas
deathwishes
afterhours
where
I scratch
through
the mirror
the face
of what
I have
stared in
it seems
not believable
it’s technology
but
leave
a little
play
that’s how
the witch
told me
it’s like
surfing
dude
I can
kinda
sense
that
there is
a self-
redemption
in splayed
dandelions
not that
I’m advocating
transcendental
anything
don’t make me
laugh
because
I’m taking
horse pills
and baby’s
getting an extra $80
in tomorrow’s
paycheck
that money’s
going straight
to my ghost
you can
have it all
my empire
of dirt
Jon Ruseski is the poet laureate of heavy metal, and author of the chapbook Neon Clouds. Recent works appear in Fence, Big Lucks, and Cosmonauts Avenue, among others. He lives in Western Massachusetts where he is a Deputy Editor for Factory Hollow Press. Follow him from beyond the grave on Twitter @jonruseskifor updates.
