When we broke loose, we simply walked and walked.
At the Delta Sonic, we saw it cry shades of blue
we've never seen before. Someone heard a new river.
Others felt a cartoon splitting itself in two.
I smelled the hair of a drug dealer's girl.
We lost a few along the way who became bricks
in the haunted houses they loved so much.
When we got to the bar, we never went inside.
We just smoked on the patio hoping for rain.
This old drunk man came up to us
holding a faded Polaroid picture of himself.
He was naked in the prime of his youth
showing off his big dick.
"I was so beautiful, now look at me," he said
tears in his bottom shelf eyes.
I expected birds to swoop in from the dark
to peck at his heart, but they never did.
Justin Karcher’s work has appeared in HAD, Maudlin House, Scaffold Literary Magazine, and Ghost City Press. He is the author of the poetry collection Tailgating at the Gates of Hell.