Autumn on this desert shore
sputters and drifts, stutters and stammers
skipping/scratching/scuffing/grooving
and it’s DJ G O D in da house, muthafucka

Autumn starts with fits of summer
tantrums of not willing to let go
of sleeplessness nights unending
of what-might-have beens unceasing
(We dance in the moonlight, in the pale glistening light
of the waning moon, you and I, in the shadows of those silent hills
in that ancient pass where they built those ultra-modern towers
noveaux faux neoclassical postmodern
with those mirrors and glass ceilings
ready for some gonzo porn or a wedding reception.)

Am I going to hell?
because when I heard that Orange County
was sliding into the sea
I smiled.

Fits and starts
like some rando pop-drop in the throes of DTs
or maybe crystal meth withdrawal (And maybe even God has to get high once in a while.
If I created this shit hole, I’d want to be high all the time, too.)

Forgetful of where I’ve been, trailing the masters like a beaten dog
or maybe a whore who’s done a few too many tricks
‘cause you gotta remember that loose lips sink ships
and no one likes a captain who’s Grade A looney-tunes
‘cause he ain’t never gotten penicillin for his neurosyphillis
(I hear Beethoven playing those heavenly chords
oh where would western civilization be without STDs?)

There is poetry in all that sordidness
If you never had the pleasure of penile discharge
or the joy of the burning dick
wouldn’t you think gonorrhea sounded pretty? Or how about chlamydia?
This modern world is all about acronyms now
like HIV or HSV, PID or AIDS whatever happened to the lyricism
of singing odes and curses to Venus
Cytherea, Aphrodite, goddess, brightest, nearest the dawn

And starts. The smoke tinged air lingering
of the peat moss of years long gone burning into ash
(chapparal takes the metaphor quite literally
and death becomes life
If Tongvans crucified their saviors,
would we have Joshua Trees in our living rooms every December?
O ransom captive Californ-i-a)

And fits: September fades into October
and even now we remember Samhain
and the Days of the Dead
and the Communion of Saints
Pray for us
(The sky is not empty
rather it is filled
is it the boundless, infinite emptiness that we fear?
or the impossible abundance, the grotesque profligateness of the universe
that makes us cry out in terror?)

Mortal.

Man.

Doomed.

To die.

(Still waiting for that new moon.)

¿La linea rojo o las lineas albas?
Pagbigyan mo naman ako