Jack Kerouac's Abode During the Summer of 1959 Lakewood, CO

I Found This in Lakewood, CO

Revival

Soon you will know to reach out and allow yourself
a candid frequency. A strong wind

of possibility blows a feeling or two of love hurt,
honesty and uncomfortably real like
ex-lovers spooning on a couch.
That was Chicago.
That was special.

A hangover and photos remind so.

A sign of relative zaniness. A calling of the bastards
to reunite in reality or escape from the gut-punch throw-ups
that maturate during copulating moments
in the orchard’s spring.

Pink lemonade, bitter marmalade, and
the darkest corners of our youth
sooths foolish abandonment.

Time has left dreams wasted and curses of the moon.
Smudged reflections, delicate flames heating erroneous passions,
cryptic hilarity of accidental collapse.

The turning gears of confusion shadow normal doubt.
Dejection prescribes this globe of dreary and deranged suspicion.

The dying superhero has plenty of time for forgiveness.
No leaps. No bounds.
Nothing more to solve. Nothing to be done.
No actions loud enough to sway persuasion.

Prank or Maybe I’m Losing It

A crucifix is laying head-first in an open oven.

A wine bottle is crusted to a kitchen counter,
black panties across a rocking chair.

Someone did this.

A note on the toilet says,
“Gotcha!”

The glass of broken snow globes decorates the tub.
Drawings of hearts on the mirror look unhappy,
suicidal cherub working the noose in the cellar.

Outside it is dark and people have taken to the streets.
Drowning will replace deep breathes,
realism conquers love, and

once a year a thought about someone will disappear.

As personality burns in the background,
the reoccurring shadow of Osiris
rises above and falls behind the trees.