Two

Hey Kids

The craziness that drove me to her
What madness you perceived in me fleeing
Such tumult creating/destroying
Without which nothing is nor was,
Its better stuff combusting in passion
Engendering both you and our anguish.

Nothing is true except...no, nothing is
Sedation sought and utilized isn’t much
Void discovered while simply being isn’t
Fried clam strips sizzling aren’t nor
Bass envelope containing Arthur Killer Kane’s
Mormon missive from Morrissey’s London.

So, bad girl, what you trying to do
Playing with those pre-punk dolls
In New York where Arthur and I
Grew on 257th Street in terracotta flower pots
On that window sill between Hillside and Union Turnpike
Hardly the family homestead or ranch

Complete with flowering veranda
Hey kids, there’s no returning
Check out what we all share
Not so bad considering all that was
Although she continues to wither,
So much beautiful intelligence lost.

Yet ever more brilliant remaining
Beauty going going on forever in
You and yours who manifest
Whatever it was engendered
All of us when the Sixties’ ghost still
Embodied something quite incredible.

Just Visiting

The triplets scowled at Tooly then at their mother who
detailed Mac’s temper dysregulation disorder with dysphoria
which his psychiatrist was managing with Seroquel, Azleptin,
and Lamictal, a cocktail that left the boy sluggish and disassociated
and doubled his weight—but otherwise seemed as if it might be working.

—Tom Rachman – The Rise and Fall of Great Powers

Anybody home?
No just visiting.
For how long?
Interminably.
How old are you?
Who?
You.
Oh what was the question?
Never mind.
Okay.
Where is your mother?
Who? Oh her.
And?
What?
Is anybody home?
Where?
Here.
Oh.
From where are you visiting?
From Where.
Where?
Yes.
What are you doing here?
Listening.
To What?
Foo Fighters.
Really? What?
On and On and On
Aurora?
Hell yeah!
We have something in common.
Hell.
Yeah.