the road to salvation is paved with cocksucking

there it was, in the beginning
the sweet carvings of skin
roadmaps etched into the landscape by
pheromones and begging dogs
in the circular light you can see god
but he begins to blur and fade as the
rumbling bus
with its soaked seats and tortured oblivion
slides by, over puddles of lost human beings
splashing the last of their potholed souls over muddied trashcans

we tell the dogs to stop chewing on shit
‘cause that’s all we got
the stuff of plastic fairytales and
metal nightmares
i’m not joking baby
that’s all we got
as meaningless as a book read in the dark
the cages of guilt and secrets held
that could never be told again
all we want is transcendence
all we want is everything
for god to die, disgraced in the streets
the way all dreams die
gutter-broken
used condoms, used underwear, used baby dolls and tylenol p.m.
i can never be loved enough

i echo the screams in the darkness
wondering if another day has begun
another day of “don’t think about it”
looking into your eyes
your hands outstretched
i wonder if i’ll be able to make it back
maybe today the great fuck will come
leaving me torn and brand new
if we are what we do
then i’m a million blowjobs and endless disappointment
my teachers said I wasn’t living up to my potential
i should have listened
i could have sucked twice as many cocks by now
if i had applied myself

- Jolee Davis

(featured in the poetry forum 04.28.10)

The Lost

we are the lost
waiting in the catacombs
of the eternal Public Storage
placed into a cardboard box
filled with rabbit coats, mismatched gloves, cameras containing ancient memories of falling skin, belts of imitation leather, sanity, hymens of symbolism, buttons, umbrellas, one shoelace, dolls with eyes that close as you lay them on their backs, children with eyes that open as you lay them on their backs, eyeglasses, pacifiers, dentures stolen from orgies, hope, scraps of paper inscribed with languages you’ve never known, necklaces of pigeon feathers, burning tires for roads, footsteps of angelic sluts, rolls of double-sided tape, laughter heard in the next room, underwear never used, coffee cups, that moment in the day when the sun shuts your eyes and you forget your own death, poetry, colored glass, watches slicing time into pi, Kalifornia doors, babies’ arms, luggage, lighters, tennis rackets, pens broken leaking India ink, dignity, hairclips, bombs made of detergent, the tightness of a cunt

there are penal colonies of lost in these boxes
people lost in language
words covering their skin
people of hieroglyphs
a sun god with burned out retinas
lost looking for the mothership
falling cold and sick in the darkening sky
of immune system malaria and sorrow
women with breasts made of
white mounds of tainted powder
lips of semen
minds of cannibalistic snakes and
intentions so pure
they could be saviors or reptiles
women walking circles in these boxes
toothless, mourning the loss of nine
aborted children, still spinning in the wheels
of drunken trucks
eidolons of bourgeois parking lots
begging for a smoke
face sunken from the Auschwitz of grief
boxes containing lost children of boredom
reading Dante on milk cartons
without hope
because hope isn’t a pill
or injection or razorblade
children nourished on pre-masticated knowledge
crackspoon fed
until there is nothing left but sardonic eyes
children without culture
cell phones playing Bach

busloads of people in these boxes
traveling the hub of urban amnesia and mental illness
I’ve taken my medication men, dressed as women
drunks changing the oxygen into rubbing alcohol
sitting liver yellow like dying plants
sweating-out in reverse photosynthesis
waiting for the liquor stores to flash
neon open signs
today could be the day we win the lottery

we are the lost among the lost
gnawing the edges of our boxes
we are the lost
devouring our young
we are the lost
reproducing faster than we die
we are the lost
spreading the plague
we are the lost
shitting in our food
we are the lost
greedy blind faithless ignorant murderous psychopathic diseased erotic tender frightened lonely sinless heathen screaming visionaries
we are the lost among the lost
searching for a way out
circling around the stench of urine and pedophiles
at the public libraries
around the money shots of art museums
incestuous sex of poets
passing the blunt of conversation
sucking the tit of Freud
humping the thighs of Plato
swallowing the jism of Ginsberg
burning the crosses of Christ
sniffing the panties of the Goddess
rubbing the belly of Buddha’s magic lamp
jacking off into the hands of Shiva
searching for the truth

in the quiet night of boxes
the incessant hum of machines
the soft cries of the beloved
watching lines in my face become ditches
I am circling
at night, I forget
the boxes filled with addiction and sleepless skies
I forget the bruised hips of hard floors and that
there is no salvation
I forget my sun
alone and motherless, circling
at night, I feel nothing but the circling
I close my eyes
I become lost in the circling

- Jolee Davis

(added 04.28.10)