Tuesday, August 31, 2021

His Church of No Church by C.L. Liedekev

My friend Buck
had hairy fists,
a sausage of fingers, a bottle
that dangles like prey in talon.
A desperate grasp,
as winter invades the room,
presses its change
into everything it touches.
Uniform in its weight,
its breath as screed. It was
the leather jacket of his life.

He always pushed
shots and liquid acid, black outline
charcoals of cityscapes
and anger, crux of Frank Miller
as reference point, as the
horizon, constant escape.
Sometimes night-time slips
its harness pushes headlong
into an open plot point,
into the crescendo of lust,
of laughing and destination
as the broken tip of the knife.

He did not know he was a church,
a church of no church, a choir
of voices stapled open in gravel
and grave light. A fading baseline
settled along his teeth, placed
a note on each word, as he would
preach of anarchy and riot, of
confrontation as the art form,
of the moment the booze slips
its bonds, down his throat,
and opens my tiny life to possibilities.




C.L. Liedekev is a writer/propagandist who lives in Conshohocken, PA with his real name, wife, and children. He attended most of his life in the Southern part of New Jersey. His work has been published in such places as Humana Obscura, Red Fez, Open Skies Quarterly, River Heron Review, Vita Brevis, amongst others. His real goal is to make the great Hoboken poet/exterminator Jack Wiler proud. So far, so good.



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