The Light Militia of the Lower Sky

Suspend all belief for a moment, while we

repair our ship. You see, something bent

when we entered your atmosphere

and before we can depart we must hammer

it back into flightworthy shape. Do you

understand what I am relating to you?

But I get tired after a night of poker

with donkeys like Wally Cally and even

black coffee cannot replenish my

creative flow—call it what it is.

I feel compelled to say more about

the ship and so on, but I’ve lost the thread.

When all is said and done something

will exist that did not exist when

Wally Cally was calling me down

to the river with junk and hitting

his flush or straight and stacking me.

Trying to exorcise a resonating bad

beat requires the magic of Max

von Sydow and Jason “Who?” Miller

who likely aren’t available at scale.

But still, I work to expose my soul

and let someone out there know I am

here suffering through my life like

almost everybody else, but lightened

in pocket and bitter at the poker

gods and all deities in general

who long ago stopped answering

their effin landline telephones.