perspective

split 'til you run out of seam and
see tension is real godliness
be spiritual anxiety forever
no one can take this away from me
or you. i see it in you
it is aurora borealis in twos
an itch and an itch when
alone, an old, tired bruise.
it is an apple that will never fall from its tree
rotting in safety
a child who hates to eat
shriveling hungry
an artist afraid to dream
selling groceries
we must scratch this until it bleeds
and dab it with a map of grotesque America decaying
until She thrives as one with the diamond matter
we'll generously have shared with her (it is important
that we allow our work to the world, though it is tempting to shield it)
at night we'll try uncurling the corners. the red spot will dry
between Frisco and Monterey, crowded by fancied hipsters
slovenly and unambitious
existing as they'll dream themselves
but we won't see them
we will be alone. the dust of California One
bellows across north Jersey light pollution,
a choking, timber voice
seeking companionship. i hear:
there is no one here
now is your chance
you were born too late
and you will die too soon
Jack is among the redwoods --
he is cirrhosis and love
and the passenger's seat
of a '49 Hudson, from which
this ancient invitation's fabric was culled:
these who are people who are not fit for truth
only guesswork
do not come to cabin-dwell or vanish into clubs
but to build, to
wonder aloud or pierce plaster or each other in moments of
creeping, insectile doubt
to raggedly trip on singularity and zen and utter time-death
on prism segues of being.
now, dutiful; though we abandon this one
there will be many more
while we are on the way