blood flowers on the sun



God,

and in the morning

came breakfast.



French toast

on a styrofoam plate

with the syrup pre-added

pooled on the bread



And I'm not sure,

but I think a cop

came in and loosed

the straps on my arms

so at least I could eat it.



I held the plate

to my mouth

and ate

it like a dog



Before that,

way back

in the long night,

I'd been strapped into the chair

and they left me there.

I'd finally quieted down

and there was an era of pause.



motherfucker...that broom handle...

ain't feelin so proud now...

bitch ass...white motherfucker...

hahahahahaha



meanwhile, I sat there

in full knowledge that the world

had, overnight, become a glowing crater,



that my father had boarded a plane,

come to save me

after he saw me on TV

channeling Omega via satellite feed

with Eddie Vedder, Jimi Hendrix, Tupac



(who'd resurrected himself 900 ft. tall

and had blown blood flowers on the sun

as the explosions fell)



My Dad was on the plane

coming for me

but the bastards had known

and slit his throat



and my poor sweet girl,

who'd made it underground,

was just two cell lengths over

laying dead and bloodied

on the grey floor

in the wan, hospital green reflection

of the block's cinder block walls

raped by the guards



I must have slept.

Next thing I knew

there was a black man

in a khaki cop's shirt

bent over me trying to unfasten

the straps on the chair



I'd been publicly electrocuted

the night before on national TV

after my Armageddon gig

but somehow, now, had endured.

And this black cop was unfastening

buckles, locks, clasps



whatever they were,

as fast as he seemed to unbuckle

them, they seemed to re-fasten

themselves of their own accord

like the dark magic

I thought I'd invoked



Eventually, I was freed.

The whole nightmare had begun to start

all over again

in modified form

but luckily my Dad and uncle (twin brothers) finally appeared

in real life to transport me to Tennessee

and sanity



but, before the cops brought me out to see them,

the black cop who'd freed me from restraint brought out a pair

of old, crusty, bleach-withered, wretched running shoes

to put on my feet

(I was barefoot: the day before, I'd thrown away my shoes,

coat, glasses, guitar, sanity and hope)

and led me into the room where they took pictures, mug shots.



He stood me on a platform

and aimed the camera at me.



I was still convinced of my horrible guilt,

and asked, "Is this going to hurt?"



He replied, "Doesn't usually."



Then they turned me over

to my Dad and uncle

and I remember them both looking at me

with such looks of incredulity, fear, and love



my Dad hugged me,

and the first thing my uncle did

when we got out to his truck

was give me a pair Docksiders

he had in there



I took off the fucked up, bleached jogging shoes

and dropped them on the Georgia asphalt,



noticing a medallion sized, purple blood blister

on my heel as I did so,



I told them.

"They killed her

and pinned it on me."



And it was a long ride

after that before I was finally safe at home