nary an hour passes when some fragment of me
doesn't range back across the years - decades now -
in search of communion with hours lauded even then.
this high ceiling is not the same as that
of those liminal years, cannot even
pass itself off as such.
the trappings are all wrong, the bodies
(mine included)
bear no resemblance to those imagined
or dreaded or anticipated.
the fanged, tartared maw of history
stretches wide, cold as midsummer AC
and unforgiving as the thousands
and thousands
and thousands of cigarettes
this corpse in waiting has consumed.
no remorse, as metallica taught me:
not just for the smokes, but the carpeted nights
and the internet searches,
the sleep terrors and the shiner bock, the
extension of consciousness beyond
what speech and flesh and warm concrete
could only point to ("god" bless them all).
nary an hour passes when some fragment of me
doesn't range forward in time - entire minutes and hours -
in search of the new liminal,
moments when words like lucid dreams
arise among the living, the awake
and inevitably point back to the past,
beyond ceilings,
beyond bodies, beyond concerns,
beyond AC.
as if such a simple horizon was all there was to it.
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