Paradox Lost
Mixer in the afternoon
alright, on my third
but outside the Sun is frying
everything in its touch
everything regarding the city suffers
a famous, commercial writer once said
never place your desk in front of a window
sitting here now in the early afternoon
frontal lobe joggled just enough
head change
ice at the bottom of a glass
sings as sweetly as Simone with
the right timing
watching the tip of the mountain
burn from my window while I write
take advice from no one
if it goes against your gut
ignore and avoid kept men
with soft hands
in weak imitation of the greats
ignore their cries for attention
and self-promotion
while they use age as a gauge for
wisdom while their
wives fold their clothes for them
in the next room
which overlooks a tiled den
and a gorgeous yard
ignore the bullshit
to simply survive is not enough
while outside the mountain burns
and your words hit the page
with force
the reward is doing it
the reward is in the lift of heart
those of us who have made a living off
the writing will tell you it’s
a long and brutal fucker of a climb
but a climb with each second worth
more than a life
avoid the circles of trash, stench, and low-flying resilience
aspire to money for contentment
but be driven by neither
accept to banish
abolish to embrace
don’t place faith in
the existence of things you
cannot see
but place it in things
you know must be there
laugh at the sorrow
while the sorrow eats you
and outside the mountain burns
and sheds rocks like tears
the Sun disfigures dream
the life of us gripped
in the fist
of our own surrender
of fear
but spiked with moments
of unfathomable joy
of moments combined
in memory
that becomes our fortress and gate
our Mars and Pompeii
our sunlight, Liszt, and metal
our poets, singers, thespians, and
criminals of war
all the love inside
trapped but burning
beneath all the anger, waiting
beneath the unfathomed greatness
built in
moment to moment
the buzz gripping the mind
the time running out in this poem
before I start sounding like one of them
and feeling the oddly warm comfort
when you become what you despise
sitting here in the early afternoon
the dead men on my shelves
the dead women on my shelves
the dead-eye stare of a mountain
on fire
weeping across the desert west to
California
where I know beauty
must be waiting
while I sit here writing
ugly in desert
officially drunk
while the mountain burns
and laughs
at my stupid
fucking
face.