we can crucify tomorrow

weak sunlight on easter sunday and that the
dead are being poured into mass graves

that the false king will have his turn

and what can i do in this
age of plague
without dali here to guide me?

what i can do with a
generation of overdosed junkies
except turn away?

fuck flags

fuck the idea of heroes

i have become an old man in this
upstate desert
without even trying

without even growing up first and,
in this respect,
i am truly my father's son

i am 26 and lost

not drowning, but always
living just beneath the surface

i am 30 and i am 40 and
i have a life

i have a half-life

am always considering the last good summer
                  to be a thing of the past
bloodhungry sex with
an ex-lover whose name
i can never remember

a car on fire at the side of the road
and that was, what, '93?

'94?

the first intimations of my mortality

the first poems that were
finally something more than just
jerking off in an empty room

and somewhere in there my children,
and what the hell was i thinking?

what could i possibly teach them
when i know nothing myself?

been a failed suicide for a
long time now, friend,
and i think i'm finally starting to get the hang of it

a careful balance of
nausea and numbness, right?

self-righteous anger and
then crippling despair

overwhelming fear

and none of us are born addicts,
                   sure,
but we're all gonna die that way

we're all gonna go down clinging tight to
our prejudices and petty hatreds,
but the important thing
is that we'll all be forgotten in the end

the important thing is that
none of our selfless acts will ever
really matter in the end