We were soldiers
Armed with latest in stick-based assault weapons
We were masked bandits robbing trains
And riding off into the other corner of the backyard

We were firemen with jet-packs
We were knights of a false age that only existed in our naive concept of the non-present
We were fucking X-men

Then we grew out of that

Then we were skaters

Then we were punks
Then ramblers
Then students
Then...

...adults


Adults...
(Can you imagine?)



And somewhere in the changing of name tags
We lost our ability to change
To become
To believe we could become

And now I'm afraid I'll be stuck as an adult for the rest of my life

The air has begun to adopt that
damp and coppery hint of decay,
every breath a syrupy drop of autumn.  
Each morning
the chorus of birds that great the rising sun thins,
its members gradually cashing in on their accrued vacation time
and jetting off to winter homes in Florida.  
Tourists.
All birds are tourists.
They won't be here to see the snow
turn to viscera under the tread of our lesser travels.
  No,
they'll be tanning by gated watering holes,
discussing the downward trend in early worm returns.

Remember that time
We turned all the faucets on full blast
Ran the well dry
And then jumped around the backyard screaming
"Rawanda! Rawanda!"

Yeah,
We were weird fuckin' kids

Remember when you told me that humor
"Was the unexpected"
And then you dropped your pants in public

We laughed til the cops stopped chasing us

Or that time at Cindy's party
When Samantha got too drunk and you...
Well...



That wasn't as funny

We soon found
That speaking of change
Was unfulfilling

So we changed things
And then spent the next four years
Blaming each other for the resultant mess
And that was the best
I have ever felt
About being an America
Because patriotism;
of the Benjamin Hancock Washington variety;
Is not about flag waving
Ribbons
Or pride in one's country

It's about dissent
And I love seeing the top one percent
Piss their pants and call the sheriff

I have never
In my life
Seen such commotion from the dead

Run

                     Run you wide-eyed idiots

              Run while your stride still carries strength
       And purpose

Run as far as the roads will allow
              Absorb experience
                            Expel assumptions

                                                 Run over broken and uneven surfaces
              Adjust your pace as needed
                                                        Alter your course as the terrain demands
                     But retain momentum

       Run
              Til the sun bleeds crimson on charcoal skies
And the cooling ground tempers your callouses

                     Run you wide eyes idiots
       While your blameless arrogance still empowers you
                                          While you undiscovered mortality keeps you safe from harm
                            While you still know everything

       Run alone
              Or in groups
                     Til your breath fails you
                            Or your legs fall off
                                   To catch up with your future
                                          Or to escape your past
                                                 With pride
                                           Or prejudice


                     Just run


                                                                                              
                                                                                        You'll be a harder target

My sister called
And told me she was tired of reliving
All the sleepless nights
Ceaseless fights
And Turkeyless Thanksgivings
She was finished
She insisted
She was finished finding fractures
On the surface of a childhood
Of neglectful manufacture
She was calling
To inquire
How I maintained my forbearance
I smiled
And said
"It's easy,
Just stop blaming your parents."

Today I had a visit from my friend the albatross
Who sang of petty head thieves, sweaty bed-sheets, love and loss
And I scoffed
Because I 'get it'
But that doesn't make it tangible
It's just another hand for starving kids to sink their mandibles
"You animal!"
The albatross replied
"How could you be so cold?"
I told him it's a medical response to getting old
An unfortunate condition I have taught myself to weather
The day I learned to hold my ground
By plucking my own feathers

I killed you
I know that now
And I'm ready to take responsibility for my actions

I saw you hit the floor
Through the veil of pistol smoke
And the haze of awkward admissions of guilt
Dead or dying brain cells
Grasping breaths
And silence

I killed you
Because you had become a monster
Not like Frankenstein
But like the arrogant son of a bitch who brought him to life
I killed you
Because it seemed like the most reasonable course of action at the time

I watched your insides boil and burst
With every creaking door hinge
And empty, hollow, cob-webbed emotion
I saw your eyes go dim
As youth blossomed into ungainly structure
And loss
I listened to your blood-caked final words
"Tell them...
I said something prophetic"

I buried you
Wore black and dropped flowers
Sang songs of remembrance
And moved on

I killed you
I know that now
And while I'm not apologizing
I am asking forgiveness

Not from you
Your dead

From myself

Today I found a glass bottle
Washed upon the charcoal breakers of Long Beach
Containing a message
Written by a starving man,
Marooned on a treeless island,
Lost in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean
Which read quite simply

"Please,
Save yourself.

I'm finally free."

a

I never wanted to be a poet
I wanted to be a monster-hunter
Until the day I found out
How much scarier thoughts are
Now
I hunt those instead

Peter built a brick house
Out of rhinestones
It was beautiful
It's where the old folks held their proms
And the children had their funerals
And every Sunday morning
They played a game they called
"Religion"
Where they beat repentful sinners
Then
Considered them forgiven

Art is stupid
Impotent
And dead
All further exploits
Are stillborne
And all past mistakes
Are forgiven

Easels will be rupurposed as serving trays
Brushes will be burned
And paint will henceforth be referred to as concealer

Art is stupid
Impotent
And dead


Long live the lost