I will but whisper into this good evening. cold and distant as the sea. i will touch my skin and wonder what it is i'm doing here. what reasoning is left in mortality when so many better men have left and leaving us with nothing but spit. stained knuckles. crooked necks still tracing the ceiling.
I will drink myself past the merriment of our shared disasters into the beauty of unconscionable sleep where i see us paper pulsed to time the seventeen year sin again only in this play we erase the name together. we burn the likeness like a sun just long enough to illuminate the stars. to offer life. to proffer insignificance to the unfaithful.
He would be proud.
He might even cry were he given the chance before he was written into some other story. some other night.
Red coat down in the rain, chasing the steps down st. mark's place. where so many once like us. once like each other. tired and terrified of who might one day be left to remember their empire of gorgeous and ignoble suffering. shouted into storefronts that the would not be ignored. bought and sold. slaves to the great green machine called american endless and anything, anywhere always. forever. amen.
But he wouldn't.
He'd just say...
Well, he wouldn't say anything.
Mistaken For Strangers.mp3