Friday, February 06, 2009

Sixty-Miles per Hour

With a sunlight of Jesus and a pall
Of Nietzsche, I immerse myself into this world of
Futile beauty and. Falling into lanes, drunk at sixty miles per
Hour I feel the comfortable habit of hubris tinged
With death that still distanced cannot come to be pulls
Me on. An hourglass of motley montage trickles down my
Spine and the life of the many marches on—the Russian
Acrobats flying in Midwest mind's awe for the life of art—the Los Angeles
Tranny pulling tricks in a K.C. hotel—the decrepit old woman still petitioning
God in a Guatemalan cathedral—the armless Ugandan child refugee running from the Lord’s Resistance Army—dive bar drinking philosophers
Inquiring the random, why not males about the sociology of bathrooms—and
In the lighted mix of mankind do I feel the wonder of that why not, but
Such a thought also takes me into the why not of obliteration—why not turn my wheel
Into sixty mile per hour concrete just to see the cement intoxication decimate
This self that I so loathe. This self that feeds on a slow-drip IV of Ayahuasca death juice. Why Not, I ask. Why, it answers—because sunlight is noon and midnight is moon and—right now—it's
only a half past two.

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