Tuesday, August 1, 2017


To the poor-
in-spirit, still trafficking
everyday, still hustling
the street to shovel

and channel away the slush
of the mundane—your motorcade
is just plain
inconvenient. I mean,

It's a stalemate, it's disintegration.
It's a sheer waste
of resources. It must be
difficult for you

to hear this—but
the past and and future
don't share the same
lane very easily. And anyway, your life

was never this deliberate
a procession;
if anything it was a shambling,
idiotic river,

an impossible spectacle
which ended
right where it began: in a font
of babbling words—a coy misapprehension, which

yet always seemed to surge,
acidic and inverted, backward
down the throats
of every present moment

and down, without
gravity, toward
the bladder—and its pitch black
ocean of unlistenable music.