Death Power Blues

Allen is asking me about my dream within, again. Why so demanded?

“A group called women. A group of women, some saying, walk away.”

I hate the impunity of markers.

Rust in the line

                  frightened and bind

hounded and bound

this time: taxonomies

games of blades thrashing, thrusting

invasion, migration

the scribe in the hall of justice and judgement

I call it in the line. “Being on a stand.” You can’t ever win.

Suggesting a departure because of a quandary we are all in.

A photo that burned in the Sukhavati Ceremony brought up larger questions and wanted to not go to the detention center.

Was that a true portrait of polished political illegality?

Allen is asking me again about the flash flesh world.

“Are you warm? Are you happy? What is love these days?”

Allen is asking about his ashes again. I say, “Oh no. Aren’t they safe on Marfa Point with the elements?”

Does Allen torment me, test me about responsibility, like when he told me on his deathbed to take care of the Kerouac School archive and some of his needy friends.

What is the best we can do with the karma on our backs to keep the thread of an impossible wish going…. You know…. A thought…. A look…. A glint…. An auger against cruelty, against brutality, against nihilism.

“There is no evidence,” Allen says, “Can’t you see, nowhere.”

He laughs.

And Enhil—Sumerian sea and storm god—repeats the thunderous end words with an envoi with you alone to speak thereof.

May all beings enjoy profound brilliant glory.