lucidity

sort of a purplegrey pulse behind the

eyes that comes with living in the 

age of murdered artists

a stomachful of

someone else’s blood

a punch in the throat

this man with the gun

says he needs to get high

wants to shoot the ideas out of your head

and this dog at his feet just

begging to be kicked

these children’s bodies dumped in

shallow graves because not all wars are

formally declared

not all victims are remembered

you kill what you fear and then

you become who you hate

we laugh at the pain of others and

hope that it makes us holy

demonology/heresy

a suicide, yes,

just like everyone says,

but what i forget is if we cared

late july and

the stench of the river,

even 6 blocks away

the heat of the afternoon,

taste of salt when i run my tongue

across your nipples and did we

answer the phone or did

someone leave a message?

were you married yet?

did it matter?

pick a day and

call it the best one

picture your life sloping away

on either side of it

love & lust & endless

blue skies and i remember all of 

this with perfect clarity

the room, yes, and her taste,

her laugh, her smile, and there is 

no good way to tell a story that

still hasn’t found an ending

there is no good way to give it

a shape

will make everyone happy