For a while there
it seems like
anything goes, but then
you learn it's because—
the past
is a matchbox,
is a glorious
hot little head-full
of zillions
of identical
perfect hair-triggers—
and the future
is pure sandpaper,
is grainy
brick mortar,
is your greasy itchy
shaking serious
perfect reverent
nicotine fingers
tingling below your
sulfur-tinged nostrils;
and every time
one single thing
happens—lookit
how quick
and hot
and lusciously
two others—
just get
annihilated.
