Artful fantasies these were
the decrepit diseases, receipts stained
by coffee and ash, a few dried
and caked-on remains of last night’s
trash activities
Alas,
we could never throw them out,
our printed records, the digitized scans
from wartime heartaches,
our birthright pains, the damage we caused,
what we endured, our psychic sprains
We could not, should we?
Maybe, but we would not forget
from what and where and whom we came
For this was us:
The whole family, gang-gang,
the demi-god squad, the screwed crew,
the dour-pathed kids
with their endless gifts and talents,
forever connected by self-imposed
isolation, left alone and trekking on
the barren canvas of adulthood to peace
together this patchwork quilt,
sporadically matching, in fleeting dings,
for dramatic dust-ups and terribly-timed,
deliriously romanticized flings
But no matter
what may come, or who goes,
which shoe drops and shatters the glass,
that wastes the wine, we’ll be fine and
haunted still with the knowing sewn into our skins,
an irretrievable link to all that’s gone on,
our maiming marked in permanent ink,
that our inside faces don’t belong
in the masked-mandated new world,
So show them whoever,
write and paint and dance
and sing your song just as long
as you always remember this is it,
your lot in life
and dream and cry and lie all you want,
run and hide and drink and swallow your pride,
but you will carry this guilt
and only the Moon or Fate can ever decide,
for us in the end,
we are only waiting staff to the real artist.
And we never actually get to quit.
June 10, 2021
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