The jig is up

My red hands are raised.

The pocked purple drooling

streaks following pinprick

prefab pores like markers

on dirt back roads.

A blind man can read

the lines so braille-like.

My fingers dipping the wet

sap sores and ten paintbrushes

bloody not yet dry so I can make

my mark and put my prints

on evidence so obvious its obscene 

it requires no re-marks.

The sweating feverish impotence

takes me to another demented modulation.

Broken within the dark undertow of heroin

waves pulled me deep and far from the shore

going forward await the cuts, gouges, organ blasting

on the shallows, and swimming vigorously straining

my mouth so i can kiss the air which unavoidably requires

a gulp on the burning cackling saltwater.

I am guilty, I used

and used and used

and used and now

I will suffer. I have suffered,

I will suffer, and suffering

is a matter of course,

a lifestyle choice.

I fucked up, I am guilty.

I allow it, I submit, I surrender.

The persecution 

at this point has won 

and the defense

has no counterpoint, 

The framing requires not much else, 

for my hands are literally red, I’m guilty.

Freakishly uneven stacks reel out one end credit roll

"Case Closed"

But no, for what ought to be clinched

in a metallic square cage clinked

with key-less barred sides built around me

to imprison me passed even the end, 

instead its a circular revolving door

to my open and insecure room

turning and turning on cue