blurred through the mumbling atomic cafe i thought i heard you say i am become deaf destroyer of words but you were breath become butterfly effect spiraling within the stereophonic white-noise drone of a static radio station tuned to the music of the silent colossal rotation of the planets, stars, sun and moon behind the drawn curtain of a vanished polaroid
still these beating hearts to a murmur slow these breathing lungs to a whisper and attach the cello strings of your bloodstream to that glittering confetti cloud of satellites strobing, circling the sphere of our atmosphere strung out on geo-synchronicity the turning tunnel of the tides the aeon-spanning volcanic swirl of magma subsonically writhing beneath the magnetic pull of the ocean floor and just...listen...
can you hear the flaming crackle of the fire burning in our bellies? if we slit our stomachs open the flames that spill from our hari-kiri'd entrails will fill the darkness in the corner of our closet and burn it to ashes
in a dream i saw us laughing together many years from now
when the blast-furnace of our blood, sweat, tears and acid dreams gapes wide we will laugh in it's face at the absurdities of death and taxes
and as the years push through we will laugh as we go blind in our old age growing brighter than the glow from within the dollhouse home we assembled from sticks n stones
and we will grow gray together and fill the soles in our shoes the holes in our soles with the dirt, rust, ash, concrete and angel dust of these city streets
and we will laugh like pyromaniacs as we **** on burial plots soil our own graves and erase our fingerprint smudges from the blueprints of our jailbreak escape plan
flames will erupt from the holes in our heads consume us spread in a tectonic shock-wave and lick the pale toes of angels and dreaming junkies hovering on ghost clouds of ***** soot just above the foot of our bed
the outlines of our bodies will liquify, disintegrate and reform as the jagged teeth of a cityscape skyline crowned crookedly upon the head of a crippled pigeon ascending in a stuttering climb towards a heaven that does not exist for us
shaking ash and bone-dust from twisted feather our flames will spread further devour prehistoric forests **** roots and tree trunks to bare bone and march in a coronation parade upon the city gates behind a revolutionary brigade of angry red army ants
finally, those flames will surround a broken boombox lost behind a landfill-mound of moth-chewed cardboard moving boxes containing the soft stains of dream and memory tagged, painted, and graffitied in white out, in sharpie duct tape peeling from perforated speakers the flashlight-sized battery compartment an empty coffin
i didn't cry the day you died. i'm sorry. the reality that you had passed away at barely twenty-five didn't really hit me, even at your eulogy and that still haunts me. they say that denial is the first stage of addiction but I assumed that you knew that death was a possible side-effect of your prescription. about two weeks after your wake, it hit me like a train. i was riding the n judah to the end of the line at ocean beach when I passed a throw-up piece that you had painted a few years before in the train tunnel near haight and cole. it was a big letter "a" in lowercase with an exclamation point next to it. i once asked you what it meant. you shrugged and said, "i just like the shape of it," and something clicked. it was then that i realized (that)
the flames of our light, love and laughter move faster than the speed of life and those flames pass us by in the blink of an eye if we're not quick enough to catch 'em and return the letters like stars we borrowed, typed, stole, scribbled and scrawled across the pages of the sky back to the sprawling library of the night where they belong where we belong