urgency

some of these pages have been lost
not by memory but by flame of incinerator
tended by men in white smocks
ripping things to pieces
in a frenzy of psuedo science
masking very real hatred.

i could draw a rose stem with realism and ink
but i am wondering about these dejected wolves
who lack the beauty of archaic mystique
and even the black night at their bristling shoulders.

it came with a tremor,
we thought you were clever
but there's not much time
when you get down to it
man is not really an animal
but an approximation of something worse
and i wish we could just sit
and break out the spirographs or something slightly neat
but to tell you the truth
there are still automatic weapons
that sound louder than old fax machines
and the romantic stories disappeared with all those packages of cash
meaning, great.

now i'm left here with ashes in some clear glass
and am wondering about the Church of Hell
amid scarred trees and filthy roads
while i practice my aim with poems into the wastebasket
trying to drum up something calming
or at least familiar
while the sunset turns to trash on the horizon
and all those people in Los Angeles, meaning very plainly "Fuck."