Tyson Park

The bridge rumbles, even in the dead of night, with people going
on down the road, somewhere to be, something important to see.
Down below, I sit on a swing in the park playground, listening to
the crickets thrum against the noise of traffic, the dark birds coo.
The all too bright light of the streetlamps chases the shadows that
could soothe, or conceal my fear, or give a recompense to the dead.
Swing myself back in forth, as if to rock to sleep the things choking
my mind, my turbulent lust for meaning, my bleeding hate for the sun.
I came here with her, once, when there seemed hope to escape this town
and the sprawl of dead inteligience and worthless holiness and cheap love.
I can’t call her face, though she stil grips my heart like a fist, squeezes blood
that is the last remnant of youth, that will be soaked into this barren fertility.
No booze, no cigarette, not even heartbroken, lovelorn bullshit music now,
to make it seem holy and precise, clean and worthwhile, just my hot, lost thoughts.
Wait for a cop to come to chase me on back home, to that hateful cell I can’t escape.
No marrow in these memories to nurture a sweeter death, just wasted time.
Too much light to see the stars, trackmarks of the heavens, scars of infatuation.
The moon sells herself like a precious whore, no solace if you’re bored with sex.
Sun and moon, stars and night torn out in colorless strips, harvested flesh of the world.
I just want to sleep, dreamless, for it’s all worthless here for me, dreams offer nothing.

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