And The Saxophone Is A Cold Piece Of Metal, After All

This summer would never have begun
if only for the sun.

So I can't orient myself
by sense anymore,
wearing loneliness like a billboard,
days slashed
into ragged sheets of blue
and black,
bruises on my skin,
above the Eden we leveled
to build the Hell we made.

And I've heard rumors
of some inherent structure
in the universe,
something like a
conscious intention.
Einstein called it "The Old One",
though he was no believer.

And I was reading an article
in my doctor's office just last week,
I think it was in Popular Mechanics,
it stated emphatically
that scientists have now proved
conception is fatal.

Yes-for many years it was
only a theory,
but it now seems
there is irrefutable evidence
that no matter what you do,
jog, exercise,
eat bran muffins, red meat,
smoke cigars,
drink whiskey like water,
shoot vitamins, smack,
it makes no difference, eventually
you are going
to die.

Procreation,
wine-drunk harvests,
launching the ships of the dead,
love is made and destroyed,
the tears fall and dry,

and one lifetime
is still a too-narrow crack in this
window of eternity,
as the bombs are dropped,
diseases spread,
bullets fly,

and I sincerely hope
that none of it hits you or me,
but it's gonna do what it's
gonna do,

as all roads lead to
homelessness,