Camus always knew he would die in a car crash,
but I'm not like that— no, I never knew.
I always flew into the face of every grim reaper,
looking for something deeper
than the local pool.
But I know now to look
Before I leap
Because I've reaped
What we had sowed
And once is all it takes
To make an elegy from ode.
Alone again, latchkey kid
hidden amid forbidden id
forgetting what he did,
I backslid from the grid
back to the burbs
where we used the term
‘murder’ ironically
but assaulted police
and ran away chronically.
Drove over a hundred
and under the influence.
But haven't flew since
pá suggested I carry on—
I had finals to take
And final goodbyes
take time unlike
you did
making a final mistake.
So now what?
Frown fake for
Baked cake and candles
To slake the quaking ache
from the lake that swallowed
You and spit out
a corpse and scandals?
Like Friar Tuck,
I'm stuck
hanging.
There is no good hood
and suburbs ain't me—
they don't fire bullets,
but they kill me with ease:
a disease is a thousand cuts.
Atoms never touch,
and Eves don't linger;
I won't point fingers.
I don't know
How to be any less
Alone.
Like a zen koan,
the aphorisms
of my youth bemoan:
“I see
said the blind man
to the deaf man
on the phone.”
Well, all I know:
Now no hand or hug
Triggers the drug
And any stroke
Feels like a cold
stethoscope
On the back of
this misanthropic
dope, I hope you
keep your hands
to yourself,
but don't do that either.
I just need a breather.
Unclench my fist
when pissed.
Down
the drain,
S'all amiss.
Gently down the streams,
I row, I drove;
I only feel alive
when I drive
over ninety five
and pull the e brake
To slide inside
whatever opening
I can find.
My mind
racing
to the end.
A friend?
is over?
And I'm left
holding
a candle
in the wind.
I can't handle
the flame.
I'll never
be the same.
Am I to blame?
The shame
burns hotter
than I expected.
I knew the tree was there
But I didn't care
Thousand meter stare,
The belt left a welt—
Habits die hard,
but dying is harder,
So I wore it
round my neck,
What'd you expect
Amigos ain't
shit when we're all hypocritical.
Crashes leaving me critical.
like donuts in the park,
I can't hang on,
It's past dark.
I tried and tried,
but why should I survive…
I no longer drive, not really.
I ride—
Not like you—
but like my old man did once:
Two wheels
powered by beans and rice.
I ran across the country to get away from ghosts,
but the old adage from the old man
still plays in my head,
Out here, though, I learned a new ending.
“I see,”
said the blind man
as he picked up his hammer
and saw.