Generation Why

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Contents

United Fates
No!
Boomerang
NY 10007
Little Monsters Say Hello
Kissing Strangers
Harder We Fall
Vinyl Destination
Break the Internet
Someday We Will Laugh
Children of my Children
Towers

***

United Fates

Before graced with
colour, there’s only clear
flesh,
blank slates
of unrest.

Regardless of
lover, we all get
undressed for
avoiding the
nights alone.

Aside from
belief or lack thereof,
our blood runs
a shared red,

does it not?

And I’m an underclass mastiff turned from his pacifist roots, blowing up bones like drones flown over desert towns. So before I go on to caption our apathy and fact-check how close we actually are to breakdown;

this is a story of
challenge without
borders or
balance-

chapbook in place of ballads

I may
never need sing.

This ain’t no
magnum opus but a
place holder until we
get our final
bearings.

So be warned, it will never conform
or care to reach accord.

Never for attention and
always for the narrative, it’s

time to give
our
arrogance some

wings.

***

No!

No, I won’t
grow up to be
a grown up, some
guppy
disowned of all
blink worthy
moments.
I can
still become the
multi million dollar

odd man out,

focus of
a lightning rod conspiracy given

cameras like clockwork and adequate

public girth.

But I will be
witness to a worm
hole in the flesh;

when
spell checks for ethics
who’ve meet their
metric
match
can retreat the
battle and
skedaddle
off to anonymity;

when a city of assumptions
trips on
its gumption
(and buildings fall by
the hundreds)

I will rise up in
their place.

And when
imposed winter’s
proven amoral,

an orchid
of remorse;

I’ll pick you
local flora on
your
diaspora through
our one
and final
recourse.

But of course, left to some of my cohorts, we would fall to a stalemate, a shadow generation of save-the-dates who never showed. Unlike bloodlines before, we can’t sit outside three doors,

imagining what greats lie
beyond each.

We have to take up action, and storm
that fucking beach,
seizing one or all
prizes in the process.

Johnny would tell what you’ve won with class.

I tell you, it’s all
godless.

But that’s why I’m the jackass.

***

Boomerang

I started
counter clockwise,
a stone’s throw from
slightly misguided aim.
The direction was
coin flip,
heads or tails to
begin with

and

I could have easily
been motion sick
coming back
the other
way.

***

NY 10007

Postal code that
exploded like a lymph node,
cancer embedded in
the genetic code of ten
city blocks.
Chemotherapy
I married like
a Vegas bride was
more pox than
prognosis,

(probably the
closest to death I can
attest to).

From the moment I
met you,
seven forty seven
I assumed couldn’t blend
sky with structure,
you punctured
and twisted
like a knife in
the distance itching to
hear us scream.

And I swear to
all my Gods if you ever
try to leave in
the night I’ll still
be sick without
the sympathy,
headcase who’s lost
all written history of
illness,

while doctors try to
kill it using
villains they know.

But this monster I’ve
grown and
cultivated,
metastasised and
abated has
ultimately traded
survival for
semantics,

optimism for a phantom of hope.

This terminal ghost plays
nocturnal
games, leaving
Boardwalk’s ground zeroes
on each hero ascertaining

roses can grow
of rubble.

Well, I’ve been digging
down
ward with wooden shovels
and all excavations
insofar
only rustle up
dead cells,

plus blood where someone
fell, hoping to tell someone
they
loved eventually

all would be
well.

***

Little Monsters Say Hello

Bundles of certainty in mothers’ arms,
suburban weeds always under her feet whose
unchecked growth rivalled that of any
farm.
Deadbeat dads and bookend days,
advertisements for becoming plastic crooks
to TV theme music I couldn’t name to
save a life,
but will hum in precarious
situations always.

Gone is the calling of crawling up trees,
for want of ascension from
brown to red to green.

(Let’s be honest,
seasons always change their stripes
in a blur.)

And there was
her,

a mother served
monotony while chasing five
dichotomies of her
own.

Your

little monsters say hello,
bargaining with shadows

we used to
plead would
go away.

Yours never left you,
did they?

And so we say,
(little monsters you used to know,
still our fathers’ spitting image)

you have to be brave;

be the change you want to
feel in motion, because

the branches
furthest from safety
are most broken and vain.

A fall is a fall but
losing your resolve is the
worst bone one can break.

Such
sage advice you always
gave me,

returned.

***

Kissing Strangers

To kiss
a stranger and all
her inherent dangers indicts
me for
vacancies she’s
already filled.
Swipe right
to kill the dream.

Rinse and repeat until
subtle departures
become sparser
and you wake up
farther still from

the one who dares
to stay.

***

Harder We Fall

I’ll hope for a story of strength,
and if all I get is
blank space,
I’ll consider you its author,
biological father of feigning renewal.

I’ll hope for schools of thought nobody’s
taught but
if all I get is
rehash
of kidnapped concern,
fairy tales full of
hollow words,

no book would be more
worth the striking match.

I’ll hope the bigger man wins, because harder he falls

trying to save
all he wants to outlive him.

I’ll hope for vision,
lest all I receive is blindness.

In a sense,
that would almost be

a kindness not to

watch the few disassemble
everything else.

***

Vinyl Destination

Cassette
dated summer ninety
six of
power pop mixes
gone off the rails like
audio powder
kegs.
Sharpie’d discs,
shiny
surfaces
skinned;

we’re the Napster
kids, all
spit and
no God-given
shine.

Burnt
through eons ago like
hookers and blow
but for
ballads we
know like the
backs of our
foreign hands.

On Mansons, Rivers,
and Marshalls we
may differ but some
twenty
winters later,
pop culture’s
splintered more like

atom than orange.

But I will admit this;

midnight on my porch was
never more
endearing than beside
b-side syllables

playing second fiddle to residual angst.

I attribute

loss of hearing to headphones in the

clearing where

freight trains run.

So here’s to poor
people still rocking
the Beatles
and falling

in love.

Here’s to the rhythms
and here’s
to the drums of
degeneracy
that married
me to punk.

Here’s to your
someone,
guy or gal in

the crowd.

Here’s to old school and
proud of it;

a masterpiece still
grounded by word
of
mouth.

***

Break the Internet

There’s a hashtag for you and I, between the celebrity we’re not and language we laud in a box that fits so few examples.
There’s ample room for
progress,
but you won’t find that
here,
just porn and
the peasants who finally have
a platform.

Poets born by
keyboard,
high voltage wards
channeling megabytes into
metaphor

while we mourn
ink used only
briefly to couple
butterflies and
breezy days
and
incremental
cybernetic change.

A student of its sabotage, I’ve seen men made into gods, dynasties with all the class of dogs, and lightning rods that make any sunny outlook storm.

And I have
laid dormant,
gently hushed my final form,
warned its impact would
wane quickly so
long as they’re
our
valedictory
face.

We’re the
dark horse in this race,
tailor-made pound signs put
there to
reserve space.

Were someone to wake
the sleeping
giant,
and share it
with dark wastes,

you’d hear
the roar a million miles from the
only corner of the
globe we ever
set out to

claim for ourselves.

***

Someday We Will Laugh

A candle in the wind becomes my closest next of kin as I lose status of light bringer. Naturally, a glow still lingers, but it never grows any bigger than,
say,
the size of my thumb.

I was taught benchmarks for love, success and faith that have become irrelevant in the dark.

But someday we will laugh, little candle, with all the heart we carved of cavernous depths.

A new standard to forget,
my humanity descends to let your wax address the dripping hells.

A flicker in your health speeds the rate at which I melt, and I’ve never yet felt so extinguished.

But someday we must laugh, little candle, to feel these first broken steps distinguished us from those

offered leaps in lieu of
a push.

Please remind me
defeat is one day when
it turns into weeks,

so I might put
my best foot forward,

if just to

tide me over until
we see the sun.

Remind me how I was loved
and once could sprint without wheezing,
still believing there was something to
run toward.

Just tell me
someday we will laugh at the
kilometres recorded  on these
caveman’s walls,

a race to the bottom we

decided to call
prosperity.

***

Children of my Children

Forgive me,
my sons
and future loves,
granddaughters of gargantuan gambles and
preventable
outcomes.
I will pray
for you as atheists might never do.

Forgive me
my trespasses beyond death and taxmen.

Give us this day,
our daily bread as we forgive those who
might sin against
us
and under loaded gun,
dismiss any intent to save them.

Forgive me,
a raven who saw how lions were fed,
and came to depend on
carcasses they
left untouched.

Children of my children,
heirs of our error;

lead us not into temptation
but deliver us from
evil in all its
unchecked
terror.

Amen.

***

Towers

I started out
a tower,
but as plane
engines got louder
I collapsed underneath
your cowardice,
my
most powerless
structures built.

The endless horizon needs
some monument to guide it

and you just
collided with the
one who

left a giant’s shoes
to fill.

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