Another poem from a RPAN broadcast, this one March 12th 2021.
That's When the Cannibalism Started
and wood, the train three minutes away,
pungent city of imagination
ascending on the steam of my
lunch, I taste what a child tastes
when they bite down on adulthood.
It’s the home part that reeks,
the poetry part, drinking
on the subway in the hopes of infection
waiting for the bus might have been
the most purposeful part of my life
in Chicago. An excuse to be late,
or for this poem to lack form.
True uselessness takes throngs.
Misplaced in the forest one
is swaddled to death; our eldest
ancestors were hiccupped back into earth.
To die in this city is to die in the name of
humanity, under the watch of my
fellow beings. This fact makes me uneasy.
It’s difficult to feed something after your death
in a city this size. To be eaten
after death in metropolia
requires hearty follow through,
deliberate purchases before insuring
your body feeds something else after
you finally snuff it.
The cat, the loneliness,
the gustier to command the timing,
hopefully the feline you adopted
gets to you before the landlord.
From what I’ve gleaned
feeding a cat after you died
used to be easier. Bus
wait, stone veranda,
a smoke and beer.
I polish off two cans
with the bus in clear view,
idling simply just a few blocks
down. I teeter as I board
sizzle to the back row,
visions belching before the wheels move.
Before I can get back to cat food,
a fellow fuck-up asks for a beer,
shows his empty whisky bottle as ID.
I give him a can and he asks who I’m listening to.
“Dahmer”, I cop. “Shit," he belches, "My aunt knew a guy-
cops found his heart in Dahmer’s fridge.”
He’s shit for reals,
no lie, Jeff is that close.
I pawn him another can
before parting ways,
vomit at the crossroads.
Perhaps we return to nature here
super omnia tyrannis
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