stillfugue

Happy Canyon Road has been
running through the bisque of my brain,
and she has forks sticking out of her sides,
her assertions make it always summer, her
psychic wails cough out these compendious
moments, blistering my cells, for I love being alone,

but the empty vessels of terror that come
from loneliness are inexorably authored by
the raging blasts of distress from walking a road
where all who surround us have perished,
the vast emptiness of screaming through
seashells larger than coliseums,

struggling to remember blizzards,
trudging through the sands of ice spiking
cells of skin, bursting in agony, furious
at the last half-butt falling daintily through
inches of flakes ruining that last pleasure
which had been saved for that moment
when the digging had frustrated the blood
flow while it poisons the eyes and then the ears,

but she burns furiously, Happy Canyon blaring
without interruption, watching me sink into waves
of black pavement while longing to recapture moments
when I held Karen’s hand for so long, but
it never happened, and instead, the Doberman
runs at me, tearing my flesh to see the defective
cells as Happy Canyon laughs in vivid orange beats,

reaching, not far, stabbing countless parts of me
with her 18 fingers, not needing any of her thumbs
and slamming me violently on top of the street
light with the sharp pointed cross on top,
like a merciless funeral drum, never stopping,
not a bass drum, but sounding like
Ppppiiiisssssssh,
always beating me in my sleep,
never stopping, never stopping,
Happy Canyon, smiling in repose.

.