twenty seven came and went
              three strikes, not out

first: a stomach pump curve ball
ejecting the dissolving pills
            second: cushioned by an airbag
after speeding down a swerving hill
                  third: plucked out of the night air
from a fourth-floor windowsill.

    i followed the path
from calculator comfort and white picket calm
down into the servitude on the page of starvation's storm.

rain poured on my hamuvtakhat-bound parade
                                  bringing flooding waves
as my day in the sun became a funeral march.

i was sold barbwire-framed torture
disguised as a gypsy painted picture

  to spend old and new moon nights
under hard fluorescent light
with my black-ink ballpoint pen
        chained into my hand
fixed fast like a magnet to a needle
and silver spoon.

virgin maidens crossed that path
soon to depart
at the first off-ramp chance
unwilling to share the back-breaking burden
of my cross shaped tombstone
        which i may never remove -
lest the slack rope strangle my neck
stealing a final cigarette laced breath.

under flashing technicolor lights
a lady dressed in white lace
tripped over my drunk stumbling body
falling into the sinking sand of my mind.

i pray that i may hold her hands again
and sing our star-crossed lullaby
before my curtain-call night calls me
ushering me to rest in that dream kingdom
beyond the sky.