Amethyst skies are raining postcards
I bent-double for a postcard somebody had dropped. I picked it up.
Leaves are being buried, it said, bodies tickled by random foliage
The letter came six months after my birthday my dearest girl, he scrawls
did you ever get the drawing I sent?
a thousand light years from here the rim of a volcano a bright red Coke can
crushed under a Converse sneaker
I've been told that time might enter the picture might visit me,
raw if I wasn't raw, would you deep-fry my limbs
throw my torso in a hangi pit snow-coat me with ashes,
from roll-your-owns read Bukowsi and Burroughs
at my wake
out of shot-glasses
engraved with cactus's
I saw another postcard that had fallen from the skies. I picked it up.
Don't know I can go on for much longer, it said, the days are numbered.
inside your lighthouse you were making an empty bottle all the others were making ships and trains and stations yours looked empty just sitting there going nowhere please get us out of this world alive tell me that dreams aren't always the same
can I take up residence in the bottle lighthouse dream please
shower me with light
subdued, emptied out
Have you found the perfect place to bury strangers?
I'm losing the thread how did we get to be
so old is it too raw too late
The last postcard, I think. It slaps me in the face
writing, scrawly, blue, manic:
Where do a thousand corpses live?
was it the seasons love