Final Poem

the wick is broken in the candle and I’m pissed
because there’s still candle in the candle

so I’m lighting matches one by one
and dropping them into the glass votive holder

the burnt matches drink the wax
and then a small flame turns large

I worry the flame will shatter glass in my face.

In the next room the cat meows in his senile state
and outside the fat squirrel shoves loquats into his good natured cheeks.
That fucking squirrel, who doesn’t love him?

The birds sing and chirp.

Once I registered those chirps as beauty
but now I know how birds signal warning.

I love denial like an opiate
flesh dissolving off the bones

I love a meatball sub and a crazy brunette and the intellect of artists
and the hordes of people who’ve walked this earth brave brave brave
setting their good selves on fire to let a greater good emerge.

This plane – this snow globe I’ve skated around
while wearing a perfect red sweater

it will explode
and I will incinerate

and then perhaps, I’ll have to look at all the faces
I did not help save.

- May 2015 Los Angeles