fuck this idea of
poetry reaching back to
embrace the past
i will not worship
the martyred or the immortal
it’s enough to be stuck in
this town of defeated old men
as they shuffle aimlessly
up and down anonymous streets
it’s enough to watch the
factories burn
and i have driven in every direction
and i have seen nothing but
more of the same
and i am only waiting for the news
that reagan is dead
i am only waiting to hear
from a friend
who hasn’t written in a decade
that all is forgiven
and i have a job that will never be
anything worth describing
and i have a son who will someday
want nothing more than to
escape his father
what i give you hear is a
pale blue november sky bleached to white at the edges
the drone of a plane and the
sound of wind through bare trees
and there is a house of
delicate bones in this picture
that i call my home
there is a river that holds
the body of
a fifteen year-old boy
it doesn’t bother me that i’ve
outlived him
but maybe it should
