Mr. Zog’s 3-Month Weekend

Woke up to a
                              thin layer of fog
              in a pack of Marlboros
                                                w/a beer can shadow
                              & an unpaid electric bill
only to thread out later
in the blood shaped afternoon
              all staggered & camera-ready
beneath scrap-iron windchimes
                              rattling in the eyes of the perfect stranger

Once you felt just that pure I know but time
              chips away at your carbon footprint
while your dreams are nothing more than
a landing strip for seagulls
                              exhausted from hauling the
rusted sky up the coast
                                                day after day these many years
                              while you keep score

              like a true revolutionary
behind the wheel of an awkward
                              silence leaving skid marks on the
              needle whenever you
                                                drift past your favorite tune
                              like the moon in a puddle of
                                                kool-aid on the beach
              & I guess it’s that euphoric
                              drumroll the wet sand remembers best
where your heart’s
nothing but a ripple trail of maybe neon fading
                              against the incandescent haze