Play by play she said.
That which matters, that with impression,
That which must stay the same, a stain, where shall it be
When all is hunted to extinction when all of noise and all of silence,
Even existence has flown, even a pigeon from the sidewalk, when all,
My pen, When even you, when darkness itself
Fight, fright or flight, she whispers
Over the hills and farther from here
Numbing apathy, future shock syndrome
Instinctive animal reaction
Depression’s only pulsation,
And pulsation only comes
Into being when
The teardrop melts the ice.
Black and white silhouettes
Of the past: filthy paper
And pen-marks, pen-marks, pen-marks
Covering all of everything
Devoid of eyes and ears
To make their natural course (all
Seized, crying, and violated, all senses
Including the heart, that soldier of what is
All
Dead
And I am asked- I inquire to myself (I, also, lost
In this hazy blur) when
Will it end, what can be done
When even the seraphs will keep on
Singing?
How can we end up anywhere,
Even crossing the road
How to get out of ditches (the teardrops
Burying themselves six feet under?)
I have had to learn of alteration
Late. Which made for such difficulties.
Even at the lakeside I was helpless, to lend myself a hand, and to walk
across the bridge.
The lake was not, in all actuality, my tourniquet.
And my decadence
Was neither attempted
Nor un-called for
By the uncontrollable.
Now I can only hold your hand,
Lamenting of roses
And decaying bark
Pray the fear
That you do not wither
Let fall the garlands
Of all that was