It’s like strong music, with chair bags, fully grown sundae afternoons in the park,
with your wife device of instrumentation, like music without words of wisdom
pouring from Rodney Dangerfield’s mouth of a River Phoenix
rising from its ashes to ashes from dawn to dusk.
           Without its mercy we can not thank, but only be thanked, or try to ask
           for what is only given unto the sun of whoever’s sky and die
           will never forgive and forget about how this isn’t what I wanted to be,
           when I grew up and over the top of our trench warfare.
Hasten unto the workshop till you drop like flies caught in vinegar,
never having tasted honey, sweetie, darling, baby.
Hatewave, painwave, grainwave goodbye, as we raft on down the river,
like leaves of music paper.
           The buttons on your clothes are like the buttons on your heart, diamond, spade,
           club dancing with the devil worshipper. You call yourself interpretations
           of your environment and natural habitat for humanity.
           But let’s deface it. Some vengeance is never viewed by us.
And just then, my match blew out like a burnt out rock star, watching motorcycles fly
by his porch in the middle of nowhere. The match won’t light again,
which adds to the sadness of its being extinguished
and no longer distinguished from the rest of the world having relinquished its flame
and choosing to never be the Same Shit Different Day by day journey to the castle
at the end of the quest to be requested and questioning the authority of “The Man”
in the yellow hats off to you.
           Do you see this cigarette? It is no ordinary cigarette.
           This is a smoke signal that says “Beam me up Scotty.”