THE LACHRYMOSE SHINE OF DAMP POLISHED BLACK WORKBOOTS
The lachrymose shine of damp polished black workboots.
The leather of the asphalt street suffused with a patina of storelight
as the ghoulish banks of snow startle the colour white
with albino ranges of impassable blockades from the ice age.
The white’s unreal in the tungsten lamp posts. Blue apricot
titanium corpse. Sybil priestess in a California laundry sheet
in a cult of 1111 who died before the mothership could
take her back. My dear, my darling, do you hear me where you sleep?
Again, tonight, awake and at the window waxing pellucid
about absolutely nothing. The faint cachet of someone’s
distant dreams. No stars, No flowers. A garden of traffic lights
and lamp posts and parking meters. No people. And the trees
garlanded in Christmas tree lights looking like fattened forlorn bulls
for a sacrifice to Mithras Tauroctonus Tautologous whose come back
to claim his birthday from Jesus when the sun is born again
in the winter Roman solstice hammering in the golden nail of the New Year
which is the only poem Horace ever wrote for Augustus.
What am I doing here like a strung out line of Canada geese
migrating like a prayer bead abacus skull nugget calendar
from the studio into the den the kitchen the hall and then
back again as if I were caught up in migration older than my own?
What am I walking off like an exiled hourglass across
the Rub al kali desert full of stars and mirages and itty
little white gravestone pills that give me the shakes when
I try to lie down under them and everything quakes
as if the fault lifelines in my life were about to change for the drastic.
Sick of the drastic. Sick of the catastrophic. Sick of the apocalyptic.
Sick of the climacteric. Sick of the asterisk. Suddenly
a hundred little white pills go running over the precipice
like lemmings in a year of overpopulation balancing the books
of evolution with Malthusian mass suicide chuteless fruitless jumps.
The same way Neanderthals used to kill mammoth and stag moose
in the Pleistocene. Driving them over a cliff
with heritage lampost streetlight torches with reduced Led lumens.
Not much life left after they were wiped out like an extinction event
for humans with an appetite for living it a little bit differently.
Where else should I be? That wants to make me live my death
as bad and deep and bleak as this beatifically condemned place.