The hurry-up done; the wait just begun. The problem
with every revolution, by definition, is it ends
right back where it started. This roundabout nature
of, yes, the tank treads of Tiananmen. Kill the thing
in order to preserve it. I take this stick I sharpened myself,
and jam it thru my earlobe, call it a sonnet. Selectively
perfect. The word empathy thrown around these days
like it’s a football, and everyone in the game trying to play
thru some post-concussive, zombie-walk symptoms. This
winter, the winter of our winter. Late-night at the sweat
lodge, and the quality of light like an aluminum bat
to a windshield. Smokescreen. Escape. A year spent
trying to count all the rings of a redwood. Camping
at the bottom of a slot canyon so narrow total shadow even
at noon. Godhead. Goddamn. Mom says I sound like
the cokeheads in the restaurant Ladies’ Room. Give a man
a gas pedal, and he’s gonna mash on it. This diorama
of Custer’s last stand. Everyone knows he was a dick,
famous for wearing, impossible to un-see, a cape of scalps as
housecoat. The history of things pressing in on all fronts.
Can there be more than one (front, that is)? No, there cannot.
Behind that truth is only the sadness of Falstaff forced
to walk home from the party once again. Overuse of “brainstorm.”
A shadow thrown across a sunbathing goddess. Mix of sun-
screen and sweat in mouth as lips find purchase on collarbones.
Everything after. Optional 3rd row seating. Career opportunities.