I erased your words today,
poetic wish
for a time beyond suffering.

Every communique tells us of
     your lonely path
     your unbearable pain
     your grace
     how you sublimate it all to wisdom:

Fuck off.

You dug your hole
to flatter the acoustics of your screaming
and it belittles us.

There's a reason
     what hearts make
is called a beating.

Inviting impermanence
you declare:
        all idols sham
        all monuments crushed
and you make a fortress
        of rubble.

The universe gives us
    wounds
too deep to heal
    in our own minds.
This is how it draws us closer
    or kills us.

In an alley
a giant Cadillac, like my grandfather drove,
dried blood rage red.

From under festival orange tarp shroud
juts chrome snarl grill
between lifeless headlight eyes.

What better to do
with such a monster
than bury it with its children?