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I saw something alive in the midst of hell, a tactile top-of-my-head vision of god, perhaps catalyzed by the pizza shop p-i-z-z-a gimme pizza, a combined eerie childhood-adult subconscious drug moment,
A holy half-tear eye, a smashing of head on the wall of the cosmos, a few hours of broken-mirror clarity,
consuming retarded amounts of caffeine, howling for the past and present, for Carl Solomon and for Allen’s mother and Jacob’s mother and for Jacob himself,
smoking retarded amounts of cigarettes to mark the start of new walking streetside conversations without a second thought,
driving while staring through streetlights at rising drifting smoke beneath crying muted trumpets, not wanting to reach home,
rejecting retarded amounts of apathy or rather
consuming the apathy and shitting out complete double rainbows
oh my god,
my god, the antithesis of apathy which is caring too much, loving too much, wanting too much, and needing nothing,
despising the rejection of happiness, the rejection of love, the rejection of closeness and truth, despising the reading of status updates and compulsive checking of dormant cellphones,
the anticlimactic arrival at home, real home,
thinking of dropping the 16^th cigarette butt into stoop ashtray but throwing it into the street and saying to no one, “Please start a fire,”
feeling a twinge in the stomach when anticipating the ritual hope for hints of love within Facebook messages,
lying facedown atop closed laptop to warm it to a suitable temperature while shirtbuttons knowingly scratch the metal top,
staring at the Sonic Youth album cover into the sad strung-out spectacled eyes of a fucked-up god, cat pacing atop my back,
prepared to blow my brains all over someone, something, everyone, everything, anything,
trying to stretch time, prolong lucidity, massage dull hard brain into rubber, waiting to be physically massaged into an orgasmic coma,
deciding whether to text girls, proclaiming ecstatic actual rooftop shouting intentions of real-life grandeur, letting them come with me
or letting them come to me, passively cultivating my own compulsive psychosis into one gigantic mass of tactless uninhibited mutual “FUCK YES!” of thought and energy,
swelling like the Big Bang, like a muted Miles Davis high-note
while the rest of the quartet keeps playing in awe, mouths agape, the shrill smile penetrating every fold of the brain until it rattles windows, bursts up above the smoggy midnight lamp-lit streets and then peaks, resting at the tip of the Walker Tower,
the city below turning to dust,

and forgetting that

it

was even there.

(Nov. 4 2010)