GUILTY FROM THE TOES UP. by Jay Passer

With each raindrop there's drama in the street

I’d move to Canada but I don’t speak Rational

Who will fish for me when my can opener snaps in two

Obviously I’m in a jam

When you write in blood it only lasts as long as it takes to type in a false             password

I walk the plank between worlds

Waiting patiently for a police officer to warn me of my imminent                 assassination

While the question of the day remains: “Is it an indie rock band or a sex             act?”

What do I care about pain? Perhaps it’s just misfortune dressed up as             ennui

I carry a knife in my pocket, on my keychain, and in my sock

The sirens outside are suicidal javelins launched into my dreams

I embrace all things immoral

Shove a chocolate bar up your ass if you must! There’s waiting lists for             such delicacies

According to Vegas the odds are through the roof

I’m tired and scared but I manage to hide it professionally

Mythology tattooed to my aura monitors my faults as I grocery shop

Given time, images darken before ultimately disappearing, primarily

    when you paint with blood

I can barely see the ladies walking down the sidewalk through the filthy             patina of exhaust fumes coating the windowpane

For your culinary amusement, I squirt sriracha on a saltine cracker

What are you without passion and stamina in the bedroom

Violation of genies conjured from plastic vodka bottles is my current MO

I’m naked like a jellyfish beached on bright sand

It’s obvious I’m in a rut

Jay Passer's work has appeared in print and online since 1988. He is the author of several chapbooks and has appeared in a bunch of anthologies. His latest collection, they lied to me when they said everything would be alright, from Pski's Porch, is available at Amazon. Passer lives and works in San Francisco, the city of his birth.