what we leave behind

i see a face in the card.

i see a mask in the card.

i see a flower in the card.

other:

you bake beneath the sun,

flesh and blood and all your sins

finally exposed.

violet splattered across the tarmac in puddles like pollock paintings

does nothing to phase the drivers,

and you've always reminded me i am as evil as everyone else

so i drive on.

(i smushed a barely buzzing fly on my windowsill—

i heard the bones shatter.)

we are conditioned for cruelty.

we are a careless people,

ceasing only for god and stop lights.

if only you could see yourself now.

you are just innards tonight,

some backyard ingredient for a redneck stew,

intestines for dinner—

punishment for an almighty sinner—

a half-dead fucker 

crawling up throats until they burn blue.

those backwards bastards would have trouble plucking you from the highway—

you are bound to road by heat and blood,

all too familiar.

while you are stuck,

i move on,

and the nights in which i wonder how many gods i've been

come less and less.

(i shot a raccoon once,

but not for pleasure.)

lately, instead of staring at graves,

i've looked at rorschach tests.

call me crazy, but i see it now

when they ask me to examine

your stains 

and tell them what red tire tracks look like.

you. 

at least you are past aching.

i am still here, 

not quite close to breaking

like your belly did 

as it was crushed to magenta juices and a purple pulp.

things look like they're whirling around in the card.

i tilt my head,

and my neck cranes to see remains of a carcass and a purge.

other:

it looks like someone got what they deserved.