the intrusion of reality
on to that frail dream;
is it enough to regret?
it is enough to forget…
but it seems not to be;
there the phone rings –
reminding me to disconnect
and keep that long distance.
oh, we’ll laugh at the audaciousness
of my own demise, the fireworks,
the hot dogs.
and the sound byte, help me with that:
mass suicide of cult believers…
{there’s always a wake behind them}
Perhaps we’ll find another to spend
the last remnants of our hearts’ flags,
tattered and in shreds from the Ides of March,
but fear not, it was shreds we presented
that drove this sadness over the edge:
we’ll not give them names, 1,2,3,4,5…
we’ll not play in the street at night
without the cars turning on their lights.
instead preferring the slow death
of tobacco insecurity, late night ashtrays
full from the thought of what may be.
screaming at low volumes
