where the pumpkins choke on campfires
and all the noise is a weekend-
staving off the solar flares
of an absolute
pyre.

strong lemonade for my perpetual disquiet.

in the bads
where the goods
go mad
and the hours
at hand-
stifling
as you wave
to reverse
an advance
but complete
a full Curse’
on a
Half-Life.

there are songs that are too many things
and catskills and blarney, jumbled out of focus
to appease the unnecessary Agency
of our Practical Demise.

in the bads, we return from somewhere that left when we did.
love, an Impala with an open mind
made of thorns as ratched
as a claim.

and a blind wine.