Running in your blood

Nob Hill in the afternoon

sitting in a dead bar remembering

Rome

the alleys of Rome

all the fucking coffees

put back, the caffeine rush

of broken-faced statues

the screaming dead

to grip the heart

but back home now

Jack & Coke

Americanized again,

which is fine, actually

the biggest thrill of travel

is knowing the typewriter

in the room back home is

where your life is lived like

it always was

like you knew it was already

but

you had to feel the night

in Spain

in France

the beats of London

and the fire-age of Italy

but what you've learned from

the words

all the Christs and Darwins and Satans

and Science

running in your blood

Nietzsche in skin but

Schopenhauer undulating

simultaneous acceptance and

rejection of nature and nurture

shit and shinola

the cunts endured

or the loves lost

by you

gone in the catacombs

beyond the chasms of

then

the comrades turned enemies

sharing that dead space

if we're lucky

a broken heart blown

to stone and shattered

if we're lucky

the Sun from now reaching

toward death

bright and open to

OUR intent for the last

half of the game

for the rest of

the words in

the room

your blood that

breaks

hard

against the shore

of what you

knew was

already

home

in your

skin.