N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 0 9

ARIEL HOLDEN

The Filth Bucket

"If a man can still scream,

but cannot remember why,

is he still a man?"

Or is he merely a specter

a copy

of a copy

of a million other

corn husk men.

Filled with half empty viscera

sagging

puckered dry

by the giant tick

our new mother.

Who bottle feeds us

rancid sink water

and wipes our bottoms

with bullets

The old Villa Bella

A wall of roses

shotgunned to our house

dusty screams

bring the dawn

awakening stale hate

A red turnip wilted soft

knifes worn and malignant

rust coated grins

adorn our collegiate

and a posed rabbit

lost sawdust

in the shuffle

Cap or crown

wheels turn in place

spokes posed to impale

on the ancient rack

test of manhood

to break

and to break

and to break