One differénce between

delight and headphones

is that you can’t leave

delight at Laura’s

after a debauch

and have to walk

around for weeks

having to be your

own supplement

to life. An adequate

singer, I missed

them so much,

never more aware

that I gesso the real

with the supple smarts

melody is. And I forgot

them there like

fizz forgot what

bubbles in it.

I never “forget”

to buy cigarettes.

They are the pastured

catalyst for smoldered

iterations of delight,

searing the easy

paths of breath.

Stirring cells to

reproduce themselves

without the thought

of death. These

guarantors of

a future so bereft

of delight, overdark

I know. I love them.

My quit date is November 5th.

Anyway, maybe there

will be resurrection.

Diamond immortality.

Like music blinks

blank but is coaxed

back into light by

a thin white cord.

I come out of dirt

in a thin white

shroud, my sisters

pissed. They remember

prick Brandon, not

the one who helped

a rascal bandit

better. Recently I got

mugged and the

guy, taking my

headphones in his hands

like someone else’s

toddler, asked how it

worked. What could I

do? I showed him, singing

their praises and grieving

the sorry lot of whatever

chump let them get away.

Now they were really lost

last breath condensing

window cirrus puff

into greedy circus, ugh

my walking firecracker

fused to quick shoots,

dissolute, scrapped

papper wrapping.

But really, don’t

put me in the

ground. I want my

body to flare, flame

usufruct, sugar

crust, steam into

stratospheric cloud,

like the collective

puff of a city’s smokers,

the happiest people

on earth. Mine wasn’t

the most beautiful

of bodies, but I sunk

it in several depths,

wet, whelping

in brisk measures

of water. Used

it to lick and whirl

a little. Dressed it

well or pretty well

from 2005 to the present

day, still no

vanity for its

perseverance. Light

torch, blow, blaze

my bones. Smoke

the ash if you want,

like Meth and Red

in How High, fine.

I wanted to write

a poem as good

as that one do

you know it?

Two graces

condescended from

the Milky Way

and landed in

a Stockholm recording

studio. The song’s

great triumph is

to conflate two

seemingly

incommensuráble

thoughts, “I love

it” and “I don’t care.”

My wanting to match its

glory is classic

hubris, not invidious

jealous rather, my daily

sin, swelled crumb

building Babel,

writing giants suck

on the inner thighs

of a giant! But if

I have learned

anything from the

study of classical

literature, it’s that

the sun is fucking

hot and it will

melt your wax

outfit. That,

and never challenge

the gods to a

poetry contest.

You will always

lose and then some.

But there I was,

clear loser looking

up into pink,

punked longing

to stroll into

the wild strawberry

cloud containment

system. It’s such a

USAmerican thing

to do, am I right?

To stand there, white

and deformed,

green from eating

cash like the sky

is pink from

industry or a salmon

is pink from eating

shrimp. I was

in California, I mean

straddling a grave.

surroundéd

by saline pools, paddling

after margaritas, but

I wanted even more,

deathless condo

in the sky. To live

among the echelons of

timeless singers

like, oh right, Gerard

Manley Hopkins.

I guess he gladly

quit the earth

whupped by its

wickeds, by haters

of measure in great

numbers, measure-

haters beloved

of states

then and now.

I love it when

people are like

“that’s it, I’m

moving to

Canada” after

a judicial outrage

or disappointing

election. As if it’s

any better there.

As if it matters

which king or king’s

kin eases on

alabastér bed

in the Lincoln

bedroom. It might

be a little better

in Canada, actually.

But it is not better

than this orchestrated

world, bright lodge

between the veiled

headphones and

the tiny bones

in my innerest

ear. My singers are

there. They love it.

They don’t care.

I love it, and trying

not to care

still I overflow

with it. Milkshake

over the lips

of my rims and

all over your plaints.

That’s the USA too,

growing enough grain

to feed every starving

person on the earth

and dumping most

of it in the sea

like some return

of a repressed Boston

Tea Party moment,

and just as spectacular

in a way, the tactics

by which our flourishing

is disappeared.

BART was on strike.

The surrogate bus

squeezed too many

souls in its hull,

sweat over bridge

in traffic jam. Some dude

three inches from

the bridge of my

nose spat impoverishmént

of solidarity.

I wished

his mouth shriveled

nectarine-pit

part of his palate pinched

wrinkled, hard, stone

shut. I distracted

myself with the thought

of ancient Sumer,

how bad a BART

strike would have

been for them, how

little of their once-

great civilization

remains. How little

BART is finally,

although I pine for it,

baleful. Don’t think

I wasn’t mortified

by this very late

colonial Indiana Jones

fantasy I was having

about Sumerians

and their transit

systems. I was.

But that was

the same fantasy

animated my

headphones,

spherical

crystal, amulets

against all that

decays. Revelations,

better than that,

continuance.

What do you

think they’re doing

in heaven today?

What do you think

it’s like there? Is it like

a croissant tunic,

flaking to the shape

of your chest. Your

very beautiful

chest, paradise for

nose and cheeks.

Like here but

better, I guess.

Here on earth,

or in Oakland,

a guy follows three

feet behind me

all the way

to the train, one

hand in his pocket

the whole time.

Chevron stock

is up. A garbage

truck reeks by

and dumps

garbage on me

and my friends.

And we love

it, we don’t care.

But I did have

a vision of the after

life that wasn’t up

or down. It wasn’t

inside anything or

painted on a building.

There weren’t even

fists, just hands

holding tightly

together. It was

a hall of singers

and you were there

and you were there

and you were there

and Tupac, and

Emily Dickinson and Walt

Whitman were there

puffing on a spliff,

in a big ass

bathtub. The foliage

grazing their naked

chests vaguely

Californian. I guess

it was a dream

of song flying

so well that even

the sun chilled

out. Wax congealing

all over the bed,

the couch, the kitchen

floor. Wherever it spilled,

that’s where I went.

I loved it. I didn’t care.

What I do

is continue

until my cheeks blue,

blister, wear out

from constant play. A little

longer please on

blue orb, baby

squeeze clit,

quit smoking,

slurred Givenchy

sweater glamourous

swift smoke from the pyre

which cools to resemble

a freaky davenport

Sumer-old, summer-

tight. Immortal

diamond la. La,

unbuckling like

a bunch of bricks

when the big one hits.

Oh yeah, the last

words of Gerard Manley

Hopkins. Chris told

me out front of the

July 4th barbecue

where we stood

smoking, huddling

over little rapid

death drive delivery

systems. I figured

they would be wild

and hard, compressed

by consonantal

pressure, sprung

from drained lips,

gloaming, opulent

from a life of

never smoking

constant prayer.

Instead he goes

grossly, grisly

gunk on the shoes

him hacking up

carburetor crap

yuck, I will never

drive except in

nightmares where

I race against

Adderall traffic

intent, wrong-wayéd

corpse-splayéd

later I wake up,

feel around for

headphones. Sumerian

ratchet jams.

Everybody has

last words, literally.

Mostly they’re traces

on crystal at best

epics on sand

sometimes they

purr on headphones.

Chris told me,

eyes gleaming

like nó fíre

wórk éver

Gerard Manley

breath barely

there died

and said “I’m

so happy.

I’m so

happy. I’m so

happy.”