To the Owner of the Golden Chariot, You Left Your Lights On

With negative integers 

on the scale of light, 

marked by fading neon 

past the spiral height; 

citing the taxing 

meter of night, 

with the hollering bells 

and the binding fight- 

-for just one ticket, 

I recite: 

Vulture’ s hiss 

the echoes of 

old godly bones, 

while labored crows 

heil, but fail the retold throne. 

I bare a drunken Noah’ s shame, 

for which Demeter bled. 

I sought the sun in vain, 

and now 

my Helios is dead. 

Grief-stricken lyrics 

are a burdened kiss, 

but the bodyguard, 

at ease, 

lets this one admit in. 

A lost beggar of a drinking 

stomach with sunken stone, 

I ascend upwards alone. 

Behind Apollo’s bar 

stands my tending receiver, 

and next to me now sits 

a mellow elder griever. 

Over a shot of lightning gin 

in my cocktail Caesar, 

the old man’s mouth, 

with yolks of yellow truth, 

spilled out the stars 

in an Asterius fever. 

I indulge him in silence, 

as I am a burnt believer, 

knowing my tab was opened 

because I am a futile keeper. 

He closed his, 

and left me in mourning, 

but before he did, 

he smiled and conclusively said, 

I’ll see you in another morning.