Tanks are light as bullets - by Craig Turnwall

Itís late and Iím dead worried tired
again; for no 3:43 a.m. reason stuck between
visions of Satan, a busted alternator with a bad pulley, pudgy neck,
stomach churn burn and dreams where I wake to small pouts of drippy
foreheads on Tuesday. I loath Mondays too.
And the night knows it.
It plays with my mind like a broken yo-yo. Spun on a shredding string. So
I think and let it. Spin.
So I drink water. Piss. Repeat.
Roll and pitch.
Visions of dirtiness. I am a rain forest.
Bustled with inner workings.
Tonight it rains.
Everyday.
Dredged this hour and its god-awful hum.
I worry I wonít find my keys to the kingdom.
Or a perfect ant hill.
Take off my socks. Walk on the hardwood dust. To the wall and stare.
This night I believe I am ten million starving stars. And I am America.
Where bedrooms scream.
Eye rub; hallowed by thy rummaged soul in this small, naked apartment chapel.
Fresh blisters, a slight case of pink eye, no money and a bad battery. I
hope all shadows
Claim; all my hair is gone. Afraid to look out windows
Silently. Porches with melted plastic.
Make-shift labs.
Seepage.
Demons who have captured canons.
So I wait earnestly.
On Chicago fire.

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