Zero at the Witching Hour


Silver vase dripping by the table
Red petals spread across the sea green carpet

I’d fly, but wherever I go – there you are
with your curses and enchantments
The black book with the names and images of your beloved dead
casting a pall over everything you touch

Hot, still day in Tokyo… wear a mask

Your lungs wheezing and whistling
as you chain smoke Lucky Strike
and burn benzoin and dragon’s blood
seeking one more bizarre erotic high
from olfactory nerves that ceased functioning
forty-thousand cigarettes,
and god knows how many lines of blow and skag,

You become your own altar
and my bequest arrives in the mail
your book of shadows and hand made tarot
the poppet you created to keep me in line
an emerald-tipped hatpin still piercing its heart
It smells dimly of myrrh
and you

I write your eulogy
then burn it on a bonfire
out behind your old pottery
the wheel still spins

And your last note to me
wrapped in gold lame
tied with a purple ribbon…
“take care of the kid will ya?
I don’t think he’ll make it on his own”



5 Responses to “Zero at the Witching Hour”

  1. jvonbargen Says:

    Woooooo! Sizzlin’, mate!!

  2. jvonbargen Says:

    That little hear-twrench at the end…..wowza.

  3. jvonbargen Says:


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