I ramble on through
drought breakfast pain
the summer rain
in Spring.
she, out there out of focus
& on the edge
dangling like a false, loose diamond
cave of coals
& winter’s breath
i think of Rich & his fast
quiet get away on the dharma bus
all these friends they knew swim in seas of certain doubts
onward through this distasteful fog towards morning
hear the gentle hiccup of midnight, the fog rolls out across
waves & rising tides of seething noise
into the lake, a certain fate
to burn in hatred, disgust & lies
& turn into something we all despise
forgive me your litany
your history of lies.
we all come to this parade
in disguise
me I was given hobbled writer, happy go lucky type
in Italian robes, echoing a fabled singer
of yore, whose dead bolt eyes stole
whole lifetimes in flashes felt across the globe
and found future friends in feasts & tomes
still, I dream the dreams of my father
whose candied, studied aplomb bought beach houses
& elegant feasts
large Italian broods, whose matriarch lies in gated splendor
no this isn’t Michael Corleone’s alma mater
humble souls of hard work, legal craft & artistry
casting plaster, stone shapes for the Getty’s of the world
i love my family, precious souls, on the West Coast
i will never call the Armadillo of Waterloo my home.
& I recalled my precious reagan flower moonburn
lost in a dank Dallas night (club)
faraway now ten years removed
probably married, a mother, maybe a Maven, or owns a sports team
who knows
the Wake, she remains in full force
& never-ending.
