My dead father came to me as a lion
riding atop my car. I braked
and swerved, then drove him to his land.
Feral, but wearing his coat of arms,
I move through the taverns, past bear
traps and twelve good old boys smoking grass.
I look over my shoulder for sounds
out of place. The field’s full of twig snap,
hysteria, bones showing a diet of brush hog.
My blood pressure’s rising like his. I’m not
related to those circling, those vultures.
A Prayer to Call Demons Home
May we collect our demons
in a half dozen tin coffee cans,
connect them with twelve
shoes strings to call them
home after they’ve plundered
all the malls wishing wells.
Your tender words
for me wouldn’t
fill the matchbook cover
I wrote this in,
and when can I see
Jason Braun has a black belt and plans to use it. Also, he makes shit: poems, radio shows, albums, etc.