Slow Fade

Like most of these places
there is not toilet paper
nor murdered trees with which
to wash your hands.

The commode’s lid has duct tape
placed upon it although
it does not make a seal.

Sometimes there is nothing to say,
but mostly such delusions
vanish with the wind’s breath.

The precursor of our loaded hand
was decent enough,
I must suppose.
There was an appropriate lack
of
aesthetic contempt
musically formulaic emulation
(and
of brilliance)
although I am sure
that they labored with all
of their faculties.

People around me stare.
They are unaware of my imminent
fame and canonization.

Am I intended to begin
a litany of what
I have yet to see?

I know their bass player’s skill,
their drummer’s passion and intensity,
the desperate flailing of a talented singer,
the uncommon poise and perfection
of Our Angel of the Cello.

I have heard these songs before.
I have pressed my head to walls or doors
and found a tiny solution amidst the conflagration
of our time.
I have lived long enough to hate a rhyme.

Oh, but you should have seen it all,
and then make attempts to awake
the same as you had been
before.