i would smoke cigarettes with you in that field knowing the next day all the glory and gold and shine and sun and beauty would be gone, draining, depleating, disappearing, diluted, dead.
you know?
whatever?
the poetry only comes as the inspiration and lately the inspiration has been coming engulfed by shadows. these shadows contain inspiration’s cryptonite: reality.
and you and your friends,
out in an orchard of apples,
i want to pick them up like the build and crescendo of a distorted guitar solo, angels around us, ascending into some ethereal place where i can pull out my innermost lust and let it free like an atomic bomb.
some gloomy, michigan day.
autumn, the earth’s massive morning-after-summer-hangover. a time when
everyone
wants to
leave
or be someone else
or whatever.