I’m lying on the floor
looking up at the TV.
Thirty-nine years later
I’m eleven again.  I like
the upside-downness of it,
familiar people talking
out of their foreheads.

That childhood of mine
is back in effect: another Asian war,
another broken country,  the flag
suspect again, and people arguing
off the top of their heads,

but this time, it seems,
not a prayer
that I’ll grow up
and out of the fear.

The fucking darkness is splintering.
They call it a meteor shower,
I call it a mistake.  I like my fucking darkness
whole and cursable.  All the damn lovable
mistakes and demons live in the darkness
and I don’t like the implication
that something could break it.  I like
my Goddamn darkness dark, not full
of potential redemption.  Curse the candle
instead for lying and trying to pretend
that it won’t go out at some point
and the darkness will be back in effect
at once.  I’ve got to live here, damnit,
fuck it all, all shit-raged and piss-full
of dim — may I remind you
that those things falling aren’t beautiful,
not wishes but trash coming down
in flames and not reaching the ground,
leftovers from the ass end of a dirty snowball.
The fucking darkness ought to be dark.
How the hell am I supposed to be
the professional shitbag I am
when all these fires keep the sky lit?
I need my fucking darkness pure.
I don’t want to have to be forced
to acknowledge hope.