the music is dead and we are asking for it

Oh pound as you walk through hell the streets of Italy fire close to your teeth did you know men centuries later would see your jail but not care?- oh pound do you know they wear Che shirts while the knowable ones sit in a chair in a small place in the Americas with a window there and a dozen trees as they put letters on paper but never write letters? The cell phones report back to dark men hiding under leaders hiding under bankers, as the guns are sold around the jungles and deserts and there’s blood everywhere and you knew you knew and it’s tears as normal. We sit uninspired and a bit scared and your jail cell waits. We’ve forgotten what being good was about and your jail cell waits.

Everything is being traced. I masturbate silently and check the reports silently. They secretly take men like you to an island by way of a cloaked board in a quiet plane and when you land you’re tortured in cold and your ass fingered and your teeth pulled. As we work, as the killers are led on, as Christianity parades the Capitol as a horribleness guards every lawn.

We’re all going to die fast and that’s jail cell or not. We could at least write poetry but the words are used and a man in New Hampshire is the Poet but his words are on the past and the Real True Blizzard’s going to hit us soon and it won’t matter much then. I get on my clothes in the morning, put my feet in socks, wrap shoes around, then I shave, half awake, pound I go to run and then I get to work after a shower and that’s every day pound forever. Pound, we listen to the bad stuff now. No more jazz. No more violin. I can’t get laid because I don’t have the looks. I tried the other night — I was rubbing my hand against every good ass in the bar but nothing. Then I left, walking the streets of Spain (do you remember being lost there?), I take the wrong left turn and things get peaceful in those streets that weren’t made for the cars they now carry. I can see a midnight peach on the side of a draped-wood store, girls are speaking in the southern dialect, bull avatars populate the hills. The Spanish are at least the same at the bullfights, keeping to that religion, keeping tradition and history final and straight. I must have been crazy to have been born in 1985 in America. If I was born here I could have really lived. Oh pound I would instead be free with fruit cottage cheese chocolate warming on a sunset yellow mountain with a dog and another man doing koans for kicks, but I am not.

We kill us and we freeze us pound. Do not rap those fingers on the wood, they will take you cold and make you colder. Pound if we drag your bones you’ll be ok and I’ll be ok and our children’ll learn something after we make them cry the good cry. Just wait while we find where the worm shits best.