Look at that newspaper —
ha, I meant that
newsfeed —
it does not matter. All that’s left
is to choose the soundtrack
to the future, and it’s
“Meet the new boss…
same as the old boss…”
When I tilt a windmill
at my battered guitar,
when I make a joyful
dissonance of the noise-news,
I change nothing
but I can tolerate the horror
of knowing what is coming
a little better when
my ears join my heart
in bleeding.
God, we need these drinks
just to forget or deaden
how lately this bar’s gotten
loud as war
and nearly as deadly.
Half the patrons
screaming, half sobbing,
no one secure, all drunk
on some substance or idea,
and both are made mostly
of bile licked
by the sour taste
of flop sweat.
This rowdy dive
is where we keep
our dreams,
our nightmare,
our curse.
It’s an abusive little church
with a pulpit
brimful of paranoid sermons.
No one likes it here
but it’s where
we keep finding ourselves;
maybe we’re in thrall to a God
we don’t even recognize.
Dark Matter 