The Angels flew to America
when Homer finished his tale
of Virgil's Lost Paradise....
what to cling to
what to infest
when the very air throughout the land
has bent sucked out by the exodus of angels.
the cold-
the cold-
the utter cold
finds itself without a host.
the body of Buddha
the blood of Kenya
and my depleted nomadic soul:
diasporic in form
and misshapen in name
in this city alone
this city la.
what occurs at the end
when there is no such thing.
does the thing end there
or does it keep on thinging.
my dradle dradle dradle
i willed it out of snow
dradle dradle dradle
GLORY TO GOD?
...no.
i know that you know
that we know it too.
and bahahahahahahahaha
lol jk the status says that i am through.
my world, the world turned 21 today
and it only makes sense that i can use this phone
to check what meal my comrade in Munich
will on this night
on this night
on this very christmas night
i digress and redress and must return to why,
no not for Donne
or Marvell or for the Queen on High
but for you and you and you and you and you you and you
the end is where i was
and i am moving once more
for where i will be, well let that be
for now.
we must decide, tonight or today
the fate of our fate and the way in which
this coin will land once
it has stopped
its insistent and grinchy spin.
L A oh yes L.A. L.a. l.A
the cold- the chill -
the green leaves waving apathetically
in the airless polluted skies.
the unrealist city of ever there is.
the dreamland of all-
after the penultimate one-
there lies the desert, and the ocean in one
with the spotlights aglow
and the streets paved with stars
and the footsteps that echo in the ears
of zombies, strolling light heartedly.
the flowers were picked (by Rechy im sure)
and the vallies of mayflowers have been
completely ignored. from april to june
we seek only one thing.
the coming of our savior,
the sun the sun the sun
now we stand on the cusp of the shore
where death meets night and the light is no more
the gulls soar and to the west as well,
in search of those perfect angels,
who left when Jimmy Dean crashed his cig
and misses Wood
drowned her pain in a bottle o' jack.
to follow the gulls
to put it in reverse.
back to the east? -
to that permanent terminal of new york city
to the eternally bright isle
and the middle ages of lore.
to the shewolf on the hill, feeding the sons of adam.
to alex and his firm friend,
and plato at the gates to the cave up above.
or
or
how many ors do we have left?
or do we sail, across to the past.
follow the gulls to rejoin the caste?
a circle is a circle
and earth spins one way
and so today we spin on
never looking back.
either the rapture or the slam
of a dime long since spun
will come or come and come again.
or- unless-
but again, i digress.
When Homer finished his tale
of Virgil's Lost Paradise,
the Angels flew
to
America....
