The saturated air of twilight
slides to the horizon and gravelly
crunches keep modernity at bay

Slurred speech and simple sugars
crash head-on with sunlit obscurity
Ticket scalpers cast your lots
and pick a number; my own private
nightmare is on display

Don’t forget your camera, we’ve got
life, death, and plenty of diet soda
to soothe your frayed synapses

Swerving in and out of reality
bile creeps up my esophagus
but birthday greetings help me
remain calm

We can still see you diving
behind the newsstand;
pretending to be enthralled
by the days mind-bending,
politically-correct marketing ploys

Gin joints, jazz clubs, and cheap pick-up lines,
back-room poker games, store-front churches
and didn’t you know Elijah is coming?
(crawling, falling, gasping for air)

Put track seven on repeat
and we’ll discuss the dichotomy
of lips, hips, and the end of the world.