Licton Springs Review

Buzzard MoltsBy Jonah Spangenthal

Take a long hard look as the greyhounds run the racetrack
Angora sweaters all around for those who didn’t circle back
Three-sixty degree Grover’s Corner motion sickness
Cobain drain you, face down the Charybdis

Alone in the street Secretariat’s fighting off the flies and buzzards
My A-frame’s full of overbearing babies and crying mothers
Muddled maternal instinct with whatever’s left in empty cupboards
Shaken, stirred, blended, blurred, smoked, snorted, face down in supper

Why the Y in my XY left no XOXO’s is unknown
Gordian knot on the front door just in case he ever comes home
Coop flown, XO took off to find his windfall
My father’s son by way of what didn’t fit in a fuckin’ U-Haul

Fret splintered bridges in the basement to splintered starlight from the firmament
At twilight write under thunderous sixty cent a square foot leaky laminate
Gently weep up heavens staircase and battle through Los Angeles
Foot stomps and furies screams can’t drown out my sound contaminants

Carnegie Hall repetition till finger tips tickle with trickles thicker than water
Sleep begs and pleads for mercy; reverberating meal ticket makes a better offer
Instead of counting sheep I’m leading ‘em to the slaughter
But I’m the martyr
That’s my blood
It’s my body on the cross
Cause I’m dying for the cause of getting the fuck out of Dodge

Catch the last rattling metal framed paint stain, the third rail spark lights calling my name
Plankton passing by the window pane slither in this steel snake under the cityscape
Me and eight million other Collie-cannibals gnawing towards the same fate
Me and eight million other tales untold, all circling the same drain

The black racks at the breadline’s calling me a regular rags to-
Bills paid by more than just a close shave, no more land-lord calling me Big Pauper
Kept my guard up, made it from Midgard to Valhalla
30,000 screams through Madison Square call and response “holla”

Act 2 begins 3 square Ramen noodle injections, 9-5 then the late shift cuz the rent’s thick
Barely catch a glimpse of Nemo, up under the chitter chatter pitter patter, scurrying hiss
From the brown crickets fat and round, when light switches flip skitter faster,
Out the garbage, under the fridge, squeezing between the cracking plaster

Plasma donation 30 bucks closer to regular radio rotation
Studio time paid for with over draft protection
Credit collection, mercenaries come to plunder my possessions

30 days to pay, last chance to buy back the part of pop that stayed
Gave up the guitar and kept the cash, paid the tax to get a verse on the posse slash

- X’s across the days

Scene set leapt to rotten apple, worming through the cement strip, the sidewalk ends with Carts and bodegas selling loosies for two bits, down late July subway sauna sweat drips
Side streets full of bootleg discs, skyline’s dulled glitter matched by Folex elbow to fist
Name’s on the witness list, testifying to the filth the fury and the furtive bliss
Don’t ever tell anything to anybody. If you do, you start missing everybody

Stolen copy of Catcher in the Rye quotin’
Hinkley-Chapman-Bickle’s better half, butterfly wings ripple
Crawling across the face of the clock, breakin’ the hands of time.

Lonely at the top of the three-ring
Tripped up slipped grip on the trapeze went back to past vice with arguable virtue
Die hard habits die old

You can’t get good weed in New York
Built to the immigrant song
Fame’s not all it’s cracked up to be
Running cross my plates and taking home easier than coach pitch

Sane but still seeing between the lines like Chapman, I’m the catcher man, I love children
I’m beholden to those that funerially shook their heads and said I couldn’t be Holden
But I’m holdin’ my own owing those doubting Thomases that gave my frame focus
Like out front of the Dakota, they’re staring down the barrel of fully load magnum opus