The lucid dreaming of driving
the headlights burn tunnels, stare holes like Superman into the night
the Venturi effect inhales the car
the night closes behind like a fist

Eat My Exhaustion

I am going where the figurative becomes literal
Replacing opium dreams with black leather hallucinations
The Emerald City – St. Francis, the City of

Beaten on a breakup night
My future ex-girlfriend nurses the department store dummy back to health
even though she doesn’t recognize me
in my purple and black make-up
– the Past

– Flash forward to the present –
She smiles as if the Yesterday
were nothing but gumdrops and dandelion wine
as if she weren’t unhappily married to a high-wire rigger in a three-ring family circus.

She says she fuck me for nostalgia’s sake
(Who the fuck’s Nostalgia?)
If we could find an empty room
and I search around desperate, but there’s no time
She kisses me and says, “I love you. I love you. I love you,” but there’s no time, and she says, “I hate goodbyes,”
and I’m getting ahead of myself again.

Sand in a leaky hourglass
My life drains from me like///
blood in the face of a man who
is told his seed is worthless, his son is dead
the blood collects in his heart like a chalice
to steel it against the coming nostalgia
Nostalgia so ephemeral, becomes solid
HITS him like a rock
and he sways on his feet like a punch-drunk boxer
who doesn’t know he’s knocked out
swaying like an overweight transvestite hula dancer
in a rundown downtown bar

remember: the head is useless
the heart – priceless

St. Francis is lit like a Christmas tree
on a Sausalito ferry ridden at midnight

I say to my future ex-friend who’s a girl, but not a girlfriend
I say, “I’ve traveled 1,000 miles to see you – Farewells
should be said face-to-face, close enough to
smell your anger and taste your last goodbye
and see our friendship fade like a burnt cigarette butt
flicked off a third-story balcony
or headlights burning tunnels into the night
our goodbyes closing behind us like a fist.”

Like faulkner’s palms will you be my Rememberer?
crushing cyanide tablets against jailhouse walls
consigned to sucking dick in memory of me?

I have fantasies of slicing my left pinkie off
and handing it to you (This is how much I care)
meaning as much and as little as
the head of John the Baptist to Salome
-but not the writing hand committing the sin of Onan
(even you are not worth that much)

I leave you St. Francis – never liked you anyway
You’re the cum spat on the sidewalk from a 20$ trick
and I hate you.

Your a woman from the high plateaus on a trapeze built for 2
and I love you.

You’re the friendship I left bleeding on the street
and I could care less.

Yeah, let’s fuck nostalgia
but there’s no time
and I’m getting ahead of myself again.