Dec 2015
I will see you on the day of the levee breach.
I will see you when my sinful green dreams
break the fourth wall.
I will see you when every instance of your
breath envelopes me like an atmosphere
of ecstasy and poison.
I will see you when your face still hasn't
aged, so perfect in your mastery, and
you'll glance back on me, seeing clearly
my eyes of penury.
You will see me—veiled until the flood, washing over, just us two, the prophecy completed, and the realm of death finally demolished.
When will we take the time to cry for the time we've wasted, and when will we start spending the time to correct this?
Tell me if you're built on the same lithium and helium that I am, or if I've been formulating you out of my own ignorance.
Deeper now, into my depression.
You. You have the lingering qualities of a ghost, and just as well a ghost that I haven't seen you in ages.
Perhaps there will be a seance to your memory but do you hold it in Seattle? In a Kerouac, run down, for sale bed in Denver?
Don't tell me you wouldn't like the highs of a streetlamp sonata... But still you'd tell me that the good stuff is really highway jazz, and that cool songstress who gave you the first bites of LSD in your throat.
I can't wait until this America looks like rubble, and is exposed for the **** it's standing on, collapses like the Berlin Wall, and we start letting love back in.
Such a drop in communication. Such a lackluster, government barn burner, and I can't get any telegrams anymore. I used to wish you'd write me a hundred times a day, and now I see where all that greed got me.
So sad. Scared to death in your presence! Am I eulogizing you now, or are these my parting words?
Originality—who's buying?
I wish that ***** would forge Picasso or Matisse.
Give me something better to worry about.
Thinking thoughts of honorable ******,
Terrible though—
You can't **** structure,
You can't **** rhyme,
You can't **** the governor,
You can't **** Ayn Rand,
You can't **** Jackson *******...
They're all doing fine.
Vitals stable.
Restored this morning.
Mystic within Catholic depression, holy roses wrapped about a room of adultery. All I could think of was Jack Kennedy, and the irony of how I cried at his tomb.
You disrupted my balance.
You walked like Aphrodite over my fixed set of morals, into my collection of a million words, onto my bookshelf... And had no idea.
Because I was too late.
Because I did not know.
Because the world would consider this all
immoral, but morals are bourgeoise
constructs anyway.
Because you have an aerosol heart.
Because you have that face of diplomatic
change, free of charge.
Because you might be God.
Because you soul walks across Atlantic City.
Because you hold a pen like Whitman.
I'm curious.
I will see you when my sinful green dreams
break the fourth wall.
I will see you when every instance of your
breath envelopes me like an atmosphere
of ecstasy and poison.
I will see you when your face still hasn't
aged, so perfect in your mastery, and
you'll glance back on me, seeing clearly
my eyes of penury.
You will see me—veiled until the flood, washing over, just us two, the prophecy completed, and the realm of death finally demolished.
When will we take the time to cry for the time we've wasted, and when will we start spending the time to correct this?
Tell me if you're built on the same lithium and helium that I am, or if I've been formulating you out of my own ignorance.
Deeper now, into my depression.
You. You have the lingering qualities of a ghost, and just as well a ghost that I haven't seen you in ages.
Perhaps there will be a seance to your memory but do you hold it in Seattle? In a Kerouac, run down, for sale bed in Denver?
Don't tell me you wouldn't like the highs of a streetlamp sonata... But still you'd tell me that the good stuff is really highway jazz, and that cool songstress who gave you the first bites of LSD in your throat.
I can't wait until this America looks like rubble, and is exposed for the **** it's standing on, collapses like the Berlin Wall, and we start letting love back in.
Such a drop in communication. Such a lackluster, government barn burner, and I can't get any telegrams anymore. I used to wish you'd write me a hundred times a day, and now I see where all that greed got me.
So sad. Scared to death in your presence! Am I eulogizing you now, or are these my parting words?
Originality—who's buying?
I wish that ***** would forge Picasso or Matisse.
Give me something better to worry about.
Thinking thoughts of honorable ******,
Terrible though—
You can't **** structure,
You can't **** rhyme,
You can't **** the governor,
You can't **** Ayn Rand,
You can't **** Jackson *******...
They're all doing fine.
Vitals stable.
Restored this morning.
Mystic within Catholic depression, holy roses wrapped about a room of adultery. All I could think of was Jack Kennedy, and the irony of how I cried at his tomb.
You disrupted my balance.
You walked like Aphrodite over my fixed set of morals, into my collection of a million words, onto my bookshelf... And had no idea.
Because I was too late.
Because I did not know.
Because the world would consider this all
immoral, but morals are bourgeoise
constructs anyway.
Because you have an aerosol heart.
Because you have that face of diplomatic
change, free of charge.
Because you might be God.
Because you soul walks across Atlantic City.
Because you hold a pen like Whitman.
I'm curious.
