The Whistling Giants

like a coalmine to a canary
we spend each day dusting this ossuary
tidying up bones and making room for more
in this tomb sanctuary there's plenty already piled on the floors
but we get bored
pick up sticks seal up the infected behind bricks
whether plenty of time or just one tick
these mortuary technicians always workin up new tricks
...don't get sick



wheel spins and stops abrupt
spokes resolve from whirling disk to static struts
as two lovers tuckered out from lust
from motion cyclical and mysterious
to inert plain matter motionless
the cooling damp of love's dank musk
elides the bottom line of cost



ego doesn't seem to get sore
just drains the blood and vigor
with bursting neuropathic flares
our bombs all fizzle in mid-air
with every touch a new dead thing
a murdery Midas — sure as shit no king
ain't got but a few years more
not much time left on this liver for sure




from this chandelier emanates
a glow the wholesome red of hate
feeds us razors at the gates
prepares us for another race
we will always make last place
it's all about traveling with grace



when the day is long and the sun get low
when the coyotes yawn in the longing shadows
he rises and walks the chupaderas slow
whistling a tune from a long time ago
a sack on his back full of dry bones
when you get lost in those hills down south
you won't ever be alone