Out of that decadence

Quiet on Friday,
sharing instancy,
infancy formed ad hoc,
of gentle and slightly
bitter exuberance,
our ear cleaned of
wax and diatribe –
forever laying waste to
dialectic with
silent dialogue.
The banjo twangs, and
our nods and half-smiles
form a dissertation
about the ecstasy we have
sought, lost, yearned,
chased, abandoned, and
stumbled over while dragging
our feet down some
broken glass alley –
suddenly face first,
abraided against
concrete love.

Then we were
slurping water
from pothole vessels to
quench our thirst for
dirt and impurity and
uninvited algae.

Crashed down, the
cops found us,
sleeping there, in
our own bruised armed
embrace, wrapped against the
feeble wisp of cold sneaking
around, peeking from a
corner office at our
despair.

Indulgence, sister to
self-effacing, laughing demise,
lurches with
anarchic intensity,
screaming at streetlights
humming the rhythm of
electrified modernity, an
immaculate intensity, a
reed blown by wind, our
joy at becoming soil,
returning to the
source, with a
beer in our hand as we
watch kudzu wrap around
our swollen tired feet,
reaching,
subsuming,
raising a toast to
dreams turned to
effluence and dust,
a last can-clenching fist
held high above the loam.

Out of that decadence, that
decay, a dandelion dances
upwards towards the gentle
breeze, scattering these
memories, these images to the
wind, broadcast to take
transitory root throughout the
earth, unconscious of
her subordination, as we

extrapolate our complicity
from an analysis of the
supply chain which
delivers 20 ounce bottles of
filtered spring water, purity
guaranteed by impure man,
quenching some of our
thirsts but not all on
sultry summer curbside
escapades, escape outings
under leaves, drooping sweating
canopies in which birds
sleep to pass the time and
leave the heat.

Canopies breathing carbon, the
exhalations of our
conditioned air and
purified water, the ashes of our
hope, our burning red-eyed
need, our unfortunate
expedient, expounded under the
rhythm of drums calling for a
war on need, a war on poverty, a
war on war.

Raise the flag, take the flag,
take no prisoners, this
war for love needs blood to
feed her. Jesus spits
bile in a hungover sink,
aching from the
last party, which lasted
2,000 years, until the
holy spirit was drained,
empty of every drop,
exuberance spilled across the
tavern floor.

The philosophy of
dialectic, left
smoldering in the
ashtray, ignited the
last drops of
whiskey.

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