THE SIXTIES, WITH APOLOGIES

I remember the future, how it was

So much like the past, those days

Rowing on the lake for the sake of

Rowing itself, never looking out, never

Any ducks lined up, only the fragrance

Of fragrance, the similes on a smile

Touched by an angle. As if our fund

For hedges was any more effective than

Duping, duking, doping, throwing

Cold water on sizzling runes. Jesus

Would have dug it, before he got hung

Up in all that superstructure. Even

The water withers in the mouth, like

Hope evaporating in the words of the

Town criers and motion sensors. Gale

Winds diminish in the mind since

Whatever is apparent and clear in

My brain is so much Yukon flu.

The utter white spaces of deception.

It’s ok, but I did that 20 years ago.

Millions of miles beyond care, sobered

Up on 12-year-old bourbon & lobster

Rigamarole. The blood on George Bush’s

Hands keeps coming out in my stool.

Night is never dark enough because

Everything I see frightens me.