the obvious fear
and i am living in this fading
house in this obsolete town near the
end of the world and this is
the sound of the earth spinning
this is the voice of the sun
says we are all dying
says truths are neither
kind nor unkind
shines on this town and on
this house but not in this room
not at this late hour
all of those lifetimes wasted
believing we still
had time to say good-bye
still
and the killer is caught,
and his girlfriend weeps
the baby has no chance,
of course,
and the apartment is cold,
the windows loose in their casings,
the grey light of january filling
the rooms like sleeping gas
smell of gasoline,
approach of trains and
then the fade
an abandoned factory in the
center of town
a wreath of dead flowers
hanging on
the fence that surrounds it
something small for the
world to revolve around
uncrowned king
a man with hands of clay
dreaming birds in flight across a silver sky
a christ-junkie nailed to the
future by his balls
says it only hurts if he lets it
says the pain is a more
compassionate god than god
doesnt expect you to get the joke and
he wont stop
bleeding all over the carpet
he wont stop trying to explain the
significance of his bent and broken wings
has faith that a lifetime of
sincere lies will
eventually outshine the truth
the burning gift
serpent charmer with his
fists of clay,
tells you his poems need to be painted in blood,
tells you suicide is only an
option on rainy days,
and he laughs when he says it but
he always looks away
always tells you why
democracy will fail
why the stones were better than the beatles,
and he wants to know what kind of
god lets children die of cancer
he wants to know the truth about d.b. cooper
or maybe he just wants the
missing money
maybe just needs to be reassured
he has been a dead man
for far too long
poem like a dream held up to a mirror
had a vision of yr death
that meant nothing to me
got yr letter from patmos and
then another from golgotha
may and then june then
july and
the bodies began to stink
the priests had their machine guns
their bulldozers
their faith in a monstrous god
bone white sun in a silver sky and the
idea of distance measured in pain
the idea of
silence as a weight
man steps towards the future only
to watch it recede, looks back over his
shoulder sees nothing but the ghosts
of better days
give him a name
give him a purpose
make a list of all the people who
ever hated him
back before he was even born
other thoughts in the age of ruin
in grey january twilight, taste of
ice on metal, of rust,
of fear, says nothing
just to be safe
just to be sure there
wont be an answer
wont be a body found in the
river thirty miles downstream
with the first spring thaw,
another jumper with a pregnant
girlfriend, another baby with a name
that sounds like a lie every time
it spills out of your bruised mouth
ritual, yes, and
born of despair
born of salt and of ashes,
of cold fires in
vacant lots
sunlight in february, which is
a joke without a punchline
the car is dead and the roof collapsed
and if i were to ask for a pretty
girl to tie the noose i know
it would be you
if we were to invent a better god,
there would still be a neverending
parade of beaten and butchered
children
better on days like this to
save no one but yourself and
still be able to call it
a victory