Dan Wils
Bar in Hell’s Backyard

Road red lines making the skeleton bruise, bleed
Under the suns brigade of sober thin light.
On days of dollar beers, cigarettes, cheap mead
The tally of dead reclines in a blind fright

Of bar room elegance, The traveler spun
From the cloth of a fallen shroud, tattered, burnt
And lost in a dead man’s pocket. The great one
Has never been dealt a whisky death warrant.

Spine like a twisted coat hanger, erecting
The fall of men built like lumber. The brittle
Balance of mercy and murder like fucking
Cork screws, gorged angels, who, on fire, sizzle.

The bar is a barren theater, alone
Like the fractured wit of a bruised bleeding bone.


Folded inside, a note enclosed, "To Father."