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