working despair in progress

what a price others must pay
who write for money
who run for money
who drive for money
and come home to porches
that have been foreclosed
despite their best efforts
at belief in a sand-filled Christmas.

we here are not worthy to have children,
we who would keep our mouths
close to our kin,
whispering fables about
a winged knight that seared
a wide rent in a fated Nazi dirigible.

nobody is interested in delicacy,
only delicacies pouring into garrulous
throats that claim passion
like a pitcher of beer;
with a shudder and a mug
pounded on the bar,
a glance at that dirty mirror,
and a run to the restroom
for some quick cheap
pleasure.

everyone is drunk, I alone am sober
"everybody is clear, I alone am clouded"
and tell me that you care
and tell me that you've fallen
like the winged knight we
couldn't show our children,
the wounded one with a
cracked breastbone who's
heart had been pulled out
by witches, who still flies
with scythe not sword,
slicing sparrows in half like
kiwis while growling at the stars
for their curse of meager light
that would illuminate his
breast's cavernous shadow.

Pity him, for even he has a home,
even he believes in Christmas
and even he has been foreclosed
by kings who cast him out
like a worn suit of armor,
like an old price,
like the whispers left upon our marrow.