Ghost ship dawn in the desert
Cold and still
placid corpse on a marble slab
Smoking a joint at the airport perimeter
Semi-automatic rifle strapped around my sore shoulder
GUN 929 carved on its stock with a hunting knife
Two trinkets of salvation in my jacket pockets
King James Bible stained with alien slime
dented tin flask filled with expensive bourbon holy water
Runway lights look like deformed religious icons
a decapitated neon cross in a skid row mission window
From an old radio station that broadcasted conspiracy shows
we transmit old poems written by phantoms across dead air
When the martian machines drilled up through the ground
and chewed up the churches and fast food joints
not a soul even looked up from their playing cards
The dice kept rolling from greasy, hopeful hands
Poker chips were flipped
at cocktail waitresses as tips
Wayne Newton sang to an audience
on vacation from outside our solar system
Giddy mobsters still busted jaws in back alleys
Society broke down on the morning of September 29th
after
the little green men leveled the casinos with a death ray
turned the whorehouses into stardust with a planetary pulverizer
We finally took up arms against this un-American nonsense
We made a flag from the banner of a burned out strip club
Art Bell’s face emblazoned on its field
flying it on the roof of the air traffic control tower
From the horizon, the aliens make an early charge
Chomping on sand and buried mafia corpses
I have a million dollars in a suitcase
taken from a secret vault owned by Howard Hughes
No hookers or horse races left to lose it on
I take a sip of booze and enjoy the sunrise
No more crappy job to have to get up for
Liberty kicks ass in the strangest of ways
Apathy is a serene prayer
ANGER AT THE END OF THE WORLD 
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