a largely acoustic affair

nights when the Jim Beam bottle is almost empty 
and the campfire’s down to nothing but glowing coals,
best known around town as the poetry-slinging 
half blues Harpoonist and/or the Axe Murderer of hearts,
mine included in the list of victims. 

I'm wanted by Puppy Jones,
and a married woman down the road,
with harm or hiss-making love, 
this is the summit of the stove
which burns near the bright river of life. 

coming in the shimmering ballad
of sinners, I pick flowers from a chain link fence,
hence the knuckle blood and the wrong reputation,
because I am not those things or hers:
I am a lazy literature casualty.

And, one supposes, proof that, 
no matter how much murder, 
vengeance, and other unpleasantness 
happen to be in this world, 
sometimes good gets the last word.