Ode to Healer, Indianapolis
Sage Justice

We toss back hard ciders, lap up
sweet toxins with greedy tongues.
Our bodies collide, molecules,
our chemical bond the poetry of  bass guitars
and trumpets, Doc Martens and beer.

We wander room to room, TV static
ringing in our ears. Monstrous
statues wearing bones and pearls,
deities dressed in spray paint, keepers
of  garage bands stand in every corner.

The guardians are watching, welcoming
us to the stage. They wave scepters
in welcome; they speak in snare hits,
blue and pink light shining from their mouths
and painting the battle jackets of  punks.

We are performance artists, in our element
with Dana Skully and Moon Goons.
We piss in bathrooms with “whatever”
door signs, kiss under crocheted blankets,
smudge our eyelids with black grease.

In the pit we reach nuclear fission, boiling
bodies of  absolute heat. Throw yourself
to the crowd and we’ll swallow you whole
like a mushroom cloud of  legs in fishnets
and arms embracing one another.

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