En quelle année sommes-nous

i’m already dead
slow time
waiting for these lines to decay
cats feasting on flesh
eventually betrayed
one candle left
no love, no sex
just unpaid sunsets

last night’s dream was
written vertically
in abstract summation
trailing pieces of some
sad and unfinished story

mind meme
the words were off white
imprinted on black background
we are all at war
and war is dying

i think it’s 1987 all over again
and i’m wandering through
my dead neighbors house
with an unopened vcr
conversing with hustlers
and dangerous children
walking out the door i ask
“what year is it?”
and i’m left wondering
where all the animals have gone

sidestepped and
waking with the need to
or possibly
this uncalibrated puzzle
flailing and failing
to accept reason
no retreat
just surrender

on to the morning muse
no title
it’s a ship of fools
and the great blue owl
is always watching
narrated and arbitrated
with crystal clues
in makeshift harmonies
set to confuse

broken souls as preachers
often the best teachers
and god is just a pattern
of manifested energies

scarred, powerless and left to surmise
i’m afraid of summer
and the pageantry of it’s memories
you’ll never know how much you meant
why does it take so long to write
a good poem
or a good life

culling the the red leaf
in the presence of daft creation
i’m still waiting
for a remedy to arrive
dressed in vagabond clothes
with long crimson hair
soiled bare feet
and the sound of that familiar
destined to meet
once again, for the last time
souls finally healed
truths radically revealed
and i hope that someday
she’ll carry me home



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