Oil City

This town has a tricky way of swallowing up the malcontent, of accommodating the outcries with just enough bullshit until they lie down quietly. 

I've let go of many dreams that have died in the toxic wind blowing through the aching 

trees and many are clasping with brittle frayed fingers to what's left

inside the callouses that are layered over and over. 

The rest of us are meandering around soulless

trudging knee-deep in feeble attempts at reaching the golden strand 

or some violent lover 

looking for her daddy 

packed with the baggage in her purse

or a bar-stool saint 

ready to roll the dice of hell 

in a foul bramble of heathens and choir singers 

beneath the dead leaves and black streets. 

I want to sing a song to Oil City

I want to stand on the edge of the highest parapet or bell tower and caw like a crooning devil--a demon with the voice from above

"You old bitch! You pit of traitors and deserters!  You glorious fray of bastards, whores, and vagabonds slithering through a miserable pit of tarred air and bar-backs.  Whatever gave you the right, Oil City?"