circuit city

I’m part of a quick waiting line in Circuit City

A doe-eye register-girl asks me for my Visa.

Words are the only instalment plan the heavens

left me. I should cut my losses with the lethal truth:

girl, my best friend was cremated today in Queens,

that spot on his back was a trick the angels traced:

in zero-air, the pale trembles of tree-fallen snow

gave back what the chapel fires made of him.

Loitering, waist-wrapped in winter wind,

I faced a long third down without a back.

He’s air now. I left the other mourners to wish

my buddy back. I’m buying hardware

to amplify a hollow. I can revel in the speakers’

ambisonic sound, refuse elegies, and spin

Hendrix at Winterland, The Who in Leeds.

I’ll windmill pain away, drop a Gibson on

the hippie-bed, pour whisky on a bleeding palm,

and make like wise Montaigne: stop wondering

about the why, and feel the deep self-going

drop of it: write no-closure on oblivion:

it was a whisper, listen it was a scream:

because it was him, because it was me.