It was a crapshoot, that year. Blown apart
by its glorious squalors: open marriages
you’d wanted as badly as your dominatrix
wanted to study performance art; primal
scream therapy down by the I-5 rest area;
boombox safety-belted into the shotgun
side of your muscle car, tripping along
Pacific Boulevard en route to your day
job. It chills your prodigal dreams: takeout
fajitas, still fizzling in their styrofoam box
on the minibar in a dim efficiency where
you no longer live, brewing hepatitis A
or worse. What don’t you understand? We
are also dying, in a sense. And in the other.
(Even our words doth flag.) I dig, my brother.