NOSTALGIA IS A LOADED GUN

 

We’ve traded the hiss, the fuzz and the fizz of the fair for
elsewhere, a landmark in the riddled dark of “why is a raven
like a writing desk?”

 

We laugh when we can no longer cry and last laughs brood
longest.

 

Sunrise entreats us with Goya disasters of war, Munch
forests, and Warhol electric chairs.

 

Pre-emptive fictions and futile plots unmask reality as a
triumph of open wounds.

 

David Lynch once said, “images are no longer beautiful, but
chains are.”

 

Oil fields and T-shirts are now extinct. Fourteen-foot fences
fail to enclose dissolute goals and murderous needs.

 

As for abstract marks or loving gestures, those strokes no
longer seize the eye.

 

To fabricate is to make and to fake.

 

Lies are the intensest truths.

 

Oh, how we miss fertilized hair and lacquered toenail
clippings shaped into red- ripe cherries.

 

Who can take pride in bottling the sweat of beleaguered
brows for sale to the highest bidder?

 

If only we could costume memories. But our headmasters
refuse to learn from old clothes.

 

If only we could find radiance in the forlorn.

 

I have always been a dreamer.