The people that seemed real,
Of 3-dimensional houses,
Are only fantasy now
Of names and what they mean:
Chelsea, Doncaster, St. Augustine ...
Something clings to these
Proxies flung down
From gone Commanders
But they can be peeled away
To my raw desire
To see
Myself
In what I've noticed:
A preponderance of pain,
The most important words not said,
No unconditional access to God
Or skateboard mastery ...
In this case, it's the tribe of Eddie Money
Riding by on bicycles
Who makes me give my soul
To three-chord desperations
As if the palm fronds
Waving everything in
Have never noticed.
