of treason reek of remembered feats-
dead records, dead traditions, lessons not learned.
Where the trends set new horizons the horrors fade
in the thin cosmetic trickery of imposing silences,
spaces cleared of remedial rubbish slimed behind
the puppeteers levering masses of incestuous flesh
through the motions of betrayl like rubber knives.
Fare thee well, oh tequila mornings when you sang
and the tune plucked strings of dark rainforest,
beads of drawn faces left alone in stress.
Fare thee well, oh acid afternoons when we walked
on the hysterical sidewalks of solicitous leavings,
gray flashes pricking our retinas with tears.
Fare thee well, oh sleepless nights,
when flesh wasn't enough, and we played sailor
in a ship harboring doubts that outshone
current certainity. These are gone.
Now there is they, the track-marked sentinels
gripped in a broken gaze, searching for something
we used to be when we were we.
They chase our traitorous blood from our
red-handed triumphs as if experiment were progress.
These are the days when "liberal" means "butt-fuck,"
"new" means "more expensive," and "love"
doesn't mean. What remains is decay,
skeletal dancers and black until.
2007 Jason Paul Fox