I’ve been singing for you
for so long, it’s almost
sin. Our coffins are calling,
so come on, twist
and shout. Hell, i’ve been
waiting for you my whole life
so come closer, I
hold all fear and lonely doubt
in my hand like a kitten. Come,
come, stay soft
where nothing happens
even nihilism loses its pleasures
even the wounds which pepper your face and hands like little
bulldozers come off as billboard or a traffic report or
an advertisement to quit drinking,
at best a warning to youth (wherever they might hide)
that the middle class always wins.
And Literature will sound to you like an old woman coughing,
out to breakfast with stubborn phlegm lodged in a cavern
of cancer, half-convinced that behind the next hack lies freedom:
the doom of the free.
Where the sun gest up just to get in your eyes
and the century is a fist, a contusion, a det paid in flesh…
where the blank depression of words trips you and you find a friend
in your scars and declare squatter’s rights on abandoned creation
ghost-sick for God and meaning
behind the strip malls and rented rooms.
Failed revolutions, messiahs, fathers-on-tape, and the bookshelf bearing
down on you like a paper tomb where dead voices slide
their secrets into insomniac riddles, heart bloated with stale love
at 3 AM with the computer mocking and a hundred thousand
humans dreaming of work beside you.
At the rapid end of the earth
we’ll be filthy rich on a dead planet
imprisoned in visions we chose to ignore.