Max Blagg

“Some of my friends don’t know who they belong to.”

Dipsomanic daytrippers kicking it
in small motels on desert mornings
dancing a june bug sonata
percussive staccato legato
flowing smooth and certain as a river
Gram Parsons wailing through the walls
infinity blue skies
emptiness surrounding emptiness
storm light orange as a flagman’s vest
Chet Baker had it coming
they punched his lights out in Dusseldorf
then tossed him from a window in Amsterdam
he landed on a concrete blond and was gone
along with all the other forms
of beauty he used to conjure,
sexy junky sadism fading
behind his slowly glazing eyes.

The boom boom room of guilt and regret
remains open 24/7 so sip supersize
cokes at the 7/11 until you are
too wide to get in your vin diesel vehicle
and yet thine eyes have seen the glory
of the knees bent show a leg ecstatic
configurations recalling Indian temple walls
limbs parting slow as diamonds
descending through glycerine
raising the head to god’s gate again
creamy as the foam
on your five dollar coffee,
hoping the thought police
won’t find you here
soaking in your degradation
reading Thomas Merton
in an attempt at redemption
before the night shift arrives
and tosses your hair dryer
into the bathtub.
 

–Max Blagg

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