And here she comes, armed to the teeth
(with words, not weaponry).
What choice do I have,
but to create something sorrowful?
It props me up,
so I can pretend that I am standing
on weekdays from nine to five.

And what supports the rest of you?
Devilry and armaments?
Or a host of hosts,
lord of lords,
and the promise of a scale?

I live to generate rhythm
and to obsess over details of an ancient past.
My mind has grown roots in the rain, god help me,
and I smell sweet, dangerous ozone.

This is not a broadside.
This is the Song of Songs—the scourge of man,
the vanished promises that we keep with us for all time,
the evaporation of a perfect moment,
and the beginnings of regret.

And what holds up the rest of you?
What do you have that I lack?
Devilry and armaments?
Or a king of kings,
lord of lords,
and the promise of justice?

So, tomorrow, I will sit down and write on parchment,
savoring the crisp, earthy feel that comes from anachronisms,
like vinyl, or manual transmissions,
old raincoats, family heirlooms,
or television shows in black and white,
and I will get on a freeway
in an old car
and drive to Los Angeles at twilight.

There will not be another soul on the road.

And as the lamps light,
I will look up at the decayed western sky
and see that,
somehow,
it is keeping me from falling down.