Poem:New Day

To hear summer morning crack

open a storm, joyfully dawning

the new day with symbols mystifying

the senses, interested, like a regard

for the shapeless beauty

of everything, and it’s great, but he still he’s the president

for a long fucking time, not that long

really, but long enough

for me, certainly, Jesus Christ

can you fucking believe it, yes I can

you asshole, because what the fuck

does making sense matter?  And what the fuck

who cares if I’m not

creative with my word choices, it’s completely believable

inevitable and pointless, it’s the imagination that matters

to you, like when you were little.

 

Not that little, in the fancy rich park

with the shapes and colors, when we finally abandoned

the conceit, saying “okay, we’re wizards,”

me and my loser friends, agreeing that beforehand,

I’m a lightning or storm wizard

who lives in the swamp talking to everything

alive, like the fatalist

in those stories you wrote, where he was born

on a rope in the storm, which was the world

for us, I want to go back

inspecting the rubble, real horrorshow.

 

Me and my buddies, standing in a crowd

jaws hanging loose at the sight of the bombs

dropping, all silent subtext is not

in between the lines, wear it as a hat

folded newspaper scraps, make a fire in a trash can

for fun, write with blood

a manifesto, a goodbye speech

for the penitent, seeing the future

written in lipstick on a naked dead body,

just the word sorry, we didn’t know

it is floating away, forever.

Poem:New Day

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