Ye shall know the truth,
It’ll taste a lot like antifreeze,
And you’ll swallow for all you got,
And spit out diamond-shaped travesties.

And the nerve of you,
Tonic and absinthe,
Scribbling a thousand landscapes
Only to end up with the selfsame
Self portrait

To hang high above the mantle,
Ring it with an altar of candles,
And say prayers obligatory,
Wondering if the Catholics
Weren’t on to something
When they came up with purgatory.

There are thirteen ways of looking
At anything.
Anywhere there’s smoke, there’s only even money on fire,
But a mortal certainty of choking.