In a town called Shithole, Wyoming

Where all good dreams skid, crash, and die

The interstate exhaust hangs thick in the air

And the cackles of the unloving haunt lonely hotel halls and rooms

Where the color of the walls is warm wounded gauze and infection

And the static of poor reception beckons the blessing of a bullet, a bottle, a boomerang

The cold cowardice of a cast iron morning, the ache of meaningless day No. 14,912  

Rings suicidal, a brow cast downward against the pavement prose

A dim Subway sandwich shop in a shuttered strip mall of inconsequential color

A corporate muted artist makes brushstrokes of mayo and mustard

Masterpieces all nonsense now, knotted, directionless, heart smashed

Once glorious eyes burnt by the devil of love, a comical windswept reverse

Trying to speak to the dead on the phone but the wind howls so

Erases every homage, thought and Amorikan prayer

Freezing cold night of cigarette meditation

The hotel parking lot a sentinel solitude, bar mate, priestess

The ancient alien laughter has always been there

A birth to mock, a soul to squander

Now leaves the bravado gin clock to wander

Through the hills and the veils of winter

To drop down upon one final wounded breath

By

Aaron Echoes August