Dead-beat dots ring but longer connect;
ghost notes on a tremoring clef,
singing Bill Evans’ “Blues in F Major”
inside a windowless room,
a pillow dampened kick drum of doom.
To cushion life’s sightseers,
who shift sockeye shame into b-bruising beer glasses,
fat lipped, short-lit, thrilling neon signs
whispering blame inside the Pub of the Black Star
What to see with eyes
sewn shut by street light?
each rapid star blacks out
making it impossible to finger trace the sky.
Orion, go home you sad fuck!
Ursa Major, tuck your piñata tail and fly
away! away! Away!
Across the draining Milky Way,
to the last celestial watering hole
where sat-down dreaming choirs
chirp blame, through chipped teeth
and pitiful blasts.
What to know when a Zeitgeist
is no longer worth knowing?
see ya Holocene!
your faded Gothic spear is piercing
Anthropocene’s snare,
releasing entropy inside of all words
baking humanity’s loaf of penicillium space junk
bloating on the breeze,
poisoning the cosmonaut’s stomach,
blowing chunks into satellites and petri dishes
But what will happen
when the wreck heads inherit the earth?
Like I would know?
I write this poem now
for the unsteady living.
3 am, New Year’s Eve,
nose stinging from the fumes,
curdling mystic genitals
vapor off tarot cards
vibrating in my damp sepulcher,
7 of Swords for balance,
10 of Wands for burden,
and Fortune’s cracked, click-clack highway
rumble strips of chanting, roaring drone,
the sound that beams me home
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