after reading William S. Burroughs
When you arrive, my soul hears your heart ringing-
tangled the canopy amidst spiders and butterflies to rest
our minds, bells to carry mourning doves peaceful
fish and amphibians swimming
in ponds under the ever-ancient moon adrift of freshet Earth,
who is said was pummeled by comet trails.
Now everything, everywhere is satellite rubble,
and my spirit explodes, the light the dark, the dark the light
with old Ron, earnest and praying for his woman infirm,
with Ron who crumples—a laundry heap to wake
with a start again—in his ram shack, lit by oil lamp, lifting
off a circus floor. Horses hover. Clowns by letters learn them use
defibrillators—but it’s late. It’s over. Everyone’s arthritic.
So forgo CPR and let Ron die in peace.
The doctor arrives drunk, complains
that someone cut his Propofol with non-fat dairy vanilla
creamer at the clinic.“What do I know?” he grumbles.
He’d rather be dead, and it pisses him off.
We stare in shock, he rants, “Can someone explain
the world we live in, when Cadillac highs are sought
at rock bottom prices?” and he cuts adrift of freshet Earth,
explodes in clouds and tumults of light in dark in dark in light.
