Ramona, I’m alive;
and it took one thousand diatribes longer than I imagine miles yonder could be, songs nestled in a world of long forgotten melody.
It took poets I wasn’t, words long winters sun kissed, ideologies bludgeoned and all my dreams bunched up in lined paper balls, learning the rhythms of hitting asphalt over again.
It took battles with irony to unlearn desire, confronting vague truths to become a more adept liar, sterilized expectations to sire artificial optimism, as in I don’t give a flying explicit visual what your miserable dictum states.
Alive with sedated praise for the process; prosperity promised, as powerless as the both of us- its only plus the portrayal of an optimist when we’ve ripped clothes off our backs to shreds.
I suppose that beats being dead, don’t it? Just looking in the rearview, an exit so goddamn near you,
knowing all that