Ridikul

America has been dying for years. It is dead, I thought. Our eulogies are written on time delay: please don't release this condemnation until one hundred years after X. In 1974 Allen Ginsberg drew the bell that did the death knells and sat still for twenty more years until His hands were so numb, puddles of sweat forming from thighs and chest and forearm. A bead off the tip of a nose, a spell of water saying: I am the bleak house of the corner drug store, windows shut like storm torn branches. I am the beer bottle in the creek that runs through the back of the middle school, the one your kids poke at instead of doing their field