Page 15 - Contrast2012

We'd rather kill ourselves than die
at the hand of old age.
We kamikaze into this hurricane
of electrons
and potential
and dude looks like a lady for the fourth time tonight.

August dies
in the middle of writhing bodies
needing to grope at something
with numb fingertips.
The stench of the corpse envelops the room:
sweat and dirty hot
cotton and lingering marijuana.

The stereo defibrillates
trying to keep it alive, pumping the
bank-cash, bank-cash
of a teenage dream's bass line.
But our American spirits are burning
down to the filter.
Ashes, ashes,
we all fall
down.

4:34a.m.
My memory is a Fisher-Price View-Master.
Picture to black to
picture to black to
picture.
Like an image of Mount Rushmore,
I know these flashes
should
mean something.
And the ground keeps moving
and I'm not going anywhere.

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