I found a cat in your parachute,
a bridge ruin Jehovah standing electric
Against a concrete wall,
Street journaling the American cancer.
Inch thick skin is the best.
Jedi master bedroom with a Sociopath landlord, better than me in your square foot garden,
dead in a Westside Story switchblade rumble,
travesty deed signed by a cruel notary public.
Crocheted by hand, a shroud of my own,
forged over a long day at the Artist mill,
a shill to will never made real, buried in the
Utility bills and the gunslinger cigarette,
Gunning for half formed thoughts.
I recall that there were few tickets left for
The train ride back to the American dream,
Most of us having awakened, midstream,
Gleaned the most recent version is a scheme
Falling apart at the seams, reeking of fear,
Barkeep two more motherfucking beers.
Inch thick skin should be just fine,
But Kevlar gets cheaper by the hour.
Jehovah Kenobi, you’re my only hope.
We haven’t spoken in a while,
i was away, or you were away, or we
had stopped talking over a disagreement…?
i’ve seen things since last we spoke.
remember how we used to tell each other everything?
my father died. since last we met.
pancreatic cancer, like patrick swayze.
but dad was no patrick swayze.
he was more like bogart, had he lived too long.
it was not heroic. his death i mean.
it was bed ridden death, long death, medical.
had you been there we could have talked about
the small rebel flag that had blown loose
from his porch, sitting in the grass, in a windy rain.
we would have talked about how he still hated
that i was an atheist, unable to relent
to his jesusgodcreator who would have him suffer
to enter a disneyland of the mind.
a jesusgocreator whom i find empty,
replaced by quantum mechanics and poetry and art,
on my own terms. a reality in place of daydream.
i tell you now that i have written to him
on his facebook account these past 3 months.
i told him things i will not share here with you,
i regret this omission, truly, but we have been estranged.
i think of his account being cancelled any moment,
and that idiot connection i have being broken, a final death.
the internet cares nothing about humanity or life.
its about immediacy. fame. connections but no substance.
it was all very medical. like an injury. a final injury.
i hope we can speak of better things soon,
don’t give up on me. i still see some beauty.
i’ll bring you some, next time we talk.
coitusing away too long in the demigod swagger,
humans invent the immortality
that is no fate of star or black hole.
humanity is good at horrors, but no black hole.
electric candled spruce trees wore us down
until the only way became the only way to prey.
i believed for a time, afraid of living more than death.
comic con cosplayers shuttled the theme from hero to
victim, to heroic victim, samaritan, to hippy beaten down by cops.
we will only ever be free of having to be appeased by release.
i went walking out in to the waves of a hurricane,
became tossed, beaten to the sandy bottom, scraped,
water boarded, blinded by brine, lost in the moment,
things could have become quite serious.
and in the wake no deities vying for my love,
no beatific cherubim escorts,
no sad eyed hippies and no demon pushing me under.
i found the end of me in the pummeling, and became lost at last.
alone in the sea, i caught the tide back to shore, saved.
outside the grocery, quick lunch while between here and
people watching, appraising, judging, making little stories
for the creatures passing by either into or out of
the breezeway of the supermarket.
i’m struck by the way they create their lives,
the afternoon grocery buyers.
if you wait, they will show you who they are.
they will show you sensitive fathers holding tiny hands
of child in pink dress, crossing the street, moving away
from my vantage.
a huge man, menacing in a scrap, laid low by tiny fingers.
striding business men in glossy suits that shimmer like
holographic paper in the sun,
important men, essential men,
samurais to their masters of industry.
I wonder if they will have the fish
or a burger or a salad for their midday meal.
so many elderly, moving slowly behind dark glasses
in big cars, or short buses, wandering into
and out of a world they no longer recognize,
yet somehow are part of still.
i am aging quicker now and soon will know
the feeling of being adrift in the new.
overhead the jet stream is moving,
the wind drops grit on all our faces,
the asphalt heats toward impenetrable summer,
and here shoppers appear, disappear
and lunch is finished.
Drains remind me slender zoned is the passage from alive to loosed particle.
I enrich appended themes icing roamed over glutton mind schemes, no more really.
Only molecular configuration, chemistry with motives, gurus of nothing.
I bargain with entropy for more time, it’s going to be useless, won’t gird my natural inclination to undo, unbe.
My id drifter hunts interstates for comfort in sparse furnished mental motels.
There is an ugly isotope colliding with ideology everywhere I turn.
Irradiated, we stumble or gig or wish until the tired cells break down.
Police in masks made of nightshade rumors unwind our trajectory, disable our engines.
Keep on, we can only keep on through the night.
I am electrical signal wrapped in soft tissue, would like to be more glorious, fail now to bow.
But that isn’t so bad, is it?
To fade to static, unwind, break down, sleep is nothing more than practice.
It’s just so long, soundless, didn’t we expect to go on?
i didn’t start to die until i saw
far down the lane,
round a curve,
a corpse whose face
I’ve seen before, if only in
a thinner skin.
those hands i knew, i held them
clasped together after all,
in large rooms of strangers,
used them to put this line down,
and many, many others,
made my meager marks on metal,
paper, canvas, and cobbled shelves
from shallow, culled lumber hoards.
strong hands, could not hold against
the invading of The Nothing.
i didn’t get a glimpse of the eyes
hidden as they were by heavy lids,
stiffened in demise, shut fast, but imagined
a watered down blue tint, perhaps foggy,
holding a final snapshot beneath
tired corneas, showing the truth
of the mostly empty universe,
uncoiling forever and forever,
or if not forever, at least
for a good many years.