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.
