sweet black top,
rain smells hot
tell me a writer can't describe,
even the smell of rain
in the summer after the clouds
ejaculate over the footprints
of children-- God's heel
and god heals,
and the Earth is new again;
Meet Joe Black,
in his new body,
this one doesn't smile
this one doesn't yearn for life,
or love anything sweet,
that tastes like air,
or looks like butter
crisp and delicious
or coffee grinds tasting
bitter; salt doesn't
quite taste like honey anymore--
oh, and Kennedy
never sent a thing
into space,
other than an un-marked letter
with a hint of cologne,
that fell beside
a bed; perfectly arranged
with a bottle of pills
and a bombshell;
blasted with well,
leave it up to your imagination.
Buried under the blacktop
are twigs, and small organisms,
that once would've evolved,
but are now just living off of
garbage, and sadness
and nothing grows,
everything survives,
or dies.
They can make do, though,
and that's what they do--
families of organisms stay in
touch, contact and breed
and fuck each other's mouths
and kiss the same mouths,
and feed with the same hands
they touch gashes with
and sleep in the same beds
they slept in other beds
of shit and garbage.
And a chimney shoots more black tops,
to fill the sky,
to cover you and I,
and we build things,
some are lost in
what the goverment calls, "cities," and, "empires,"
Greece, Sparta, New York, Chicago,
Even Dreaming of Speaking Romantic Roman---
But I--
I just wish it all would end.