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Rest in peace to homey, MCA. You’ll be missed.

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Sour in the Web

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All I’ve been is interpretation

striving to find a language lost

through which the audience can learn

that even shadows share a hatred

of all this interminable light

which makes us forget so sweetly

all that we’ve ever seen for ourselves.

She stands next to me

looking at me deliriously like an vagrant button never sown

on a jacket she threw away years ago

knowing that I saw her as a divine chord

that no one’s mastered to play

another hole in the mystery of existence

a beautiful myth I couldn’t translate.

I have blood and phlegm filling up my lungs

but I’m still smoking

because the abjuratory-committed don’t expect me to give up just yet

without another glass of wine

they sit with their liberal arts degrees in their high-walled asylums

getting high on stale Arizona greens

waiting for young Keats to show his face again

because he didn’t quite accomplish all there was in his 25

so he might as well take mine  

like an old Salieri who waited for god’s silence to turn him deaf.

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