The Fanfare Roared
This took a life to write.
Straight up, you got to kill the ghosts that haunt you.
And by any means necessary.
Some need only time. They heal. Leave.
Some need time with effort. They go— are gone.
Then some require:
Driving to, parking on — in — the middle — of that
Motherfuckin’. Coronado. Bridge.
Such monumental sadness, that one…
Prayed to —
Begged of —
For rescue —
So. Many. Times.
Never to be jumped to the death-of off of —
That one…
Which of late is become so alluring,
So approaching
the point of carnal — filial —
desire;
in harmony with; forlorn of;
longing for and in mourning of:
A farewell parade,
and comforting,
long overdue love.
Well brother, I can only describe it
as the pure enchantment — nay —
enthrallment —
of the sexuality of the soul.
Go there, then. Drive.
Two hours into the morning’s night,
and park you there in the middle of the lane,
centered upon that scaffold, that tall tall bridge —
hood popped and hazard lights flashing nuclear hellfire
in which you are to be baptized, saved.
And then, being reverent and having serious purpose,
crawl you now to the precipice — a razor’s edge,
it cuts away the rotting flesh of blame;
butchers the hearts of sinners and charlatans;
reveals you a wholly new paradigm
as novel as it is improbable in its providence.
Now look you down, down into the abyss,
there ocean that left you adrift,
starving, with ne’er fair winds
and always poor mooring.
So infinitely ever impossible to reach,
your sick little heart bleating now
cataclysmic horns of judgement.
And smell salt. Feel hunger.
Beauty, versatility — really just absurd:
the numerous and numinous functions of salt.
Sodium…elemental stuff. And hard.
That which gives — and takes — life,
for (insert reason here).
And bleed from windy bite. Is cold — murder.
A venom-lick sacrifice to be so uncomfortable
for and of and by and with and to and and and…
…an indifferent mother.
Got to be real real true true now now,
and firm in resolution. Committed.
And, so, with stating proclamation to your tragedy,
forsake. it.
Without hesitation! And then sing!
Yes, sing! Sing—
to bridge, to death, to God, and—
to your lonely, little self—
only years old and already imaginary,
probably far too comfy with Death,
his pale horse terrible in its soundlessness.
You child, who spent existence forsook, illegitimate,
sworn on, fought for — by none — say this, and mean it:
“I will never, ever, jump off from up on you,
you Coronado Bridge. You diving rock to oblivion.”
And after that then, maybe paint you
the only picture of you to ever exist.
A self-portrait. A photograph.
A selfie, yea.
It which features: the only smile ever smiled—
in total satisfaction — even if only
for just a single moment’s
birth and life and death.
Happy! Yes, but the nostalgia terrible already.
You always did mourn the loss of the moment
before it ever even turned to go…
It is an honor to be alive. To be allowed even misery,
walking dead this globe of dirt and water, blood and semen.
(Mud…Clay…)
Because…
Because!
Because…
You. Exist.
You do.
You: having vitality. Being alive.
Sovereign. Blessed.
Worthy.
You are worthy.
You’re worthy.
…So smile true now.
And again —
an unfamiliar departure from snarling,
gnashing mouth all daggers.
Found your heartplace, you did.
Your Forspecial.
This place healing the child become
so visibly blinding now…
…You should then hop back in the car and dip out
and over real brisk and quick-like,
flipping the U-turn there on that island of Coronado.
You’ll probably see cops.
They’ll forsake their own little outpost post-up spot.
Someone flagged ’em down — told ‘em—
about the guy — Me — You — back there
high on the bridge.
And so, being real cool and calm,
speed then back over and out, atop that construct.
Right. The fuck. Over. Top.
So go, go escape you now that relentless pursuing flight
of screaming demons borne upon you.
Flee fast steady that road to perdition,
that corridor to nirvana or hell,
at like one hundred miles per hour,
with windows down, in violent reverence,
gangster rap cacophonous
and blasting like victory fanfare
as you escape that hail of gunfire.
You are weeping, screaming,
and you are euphoric, again.
This is your soul. This is your ecstasy.
It is in sight now. Salvation.
Yours, if you will have it.
…So have pride. It was sheer will. Bravery.
Or courage. Or whatever.
I mean…fortuitous, for sure.
That we were able to make it through that long dark night.
Our eternal internal war.
Always so pyrrhic and pure hate.
And all for what?
That you’d somehow been able to navigate
that gauntlet of rejection — so famished for death.
…Okay.
And okay…
…So and then you can just go get on and going and home now.
Just like so. And into bed then, and say it — “Thankee Sai”.
Thanks. The opportunity to survive life.
And to now settle down and next do the sleeping, the sacred stasis.
Panacea to so much pain, it is emblazoned upon eyes that stare.
The eyes that search. For release.
For relief.
…And love, not with understanding,
but with gratitude nonetheless,
and do wear them with honor,
your scars so purple hearts and red roses.
That the body and soul were wed at last — rejoice!
Yes and yes and yes!
You: released from fetters. By blood and by inquisition.
Yes and yes and yes!
You are free. I free you. And so you are free. I release you!
And rest! Rest you! You can rest, now!
Now, you can rest.
And exalt! The progress made.
Testament to the brave who do
HEAL!
And do wind the hands the new day,
always completely novel
and
AWAKE
It never before did or didn’t happen,
not until you decided to live the rest of the
LIFE
And try.
Try then never the taking for granted of
the forgiving, perfect love — the gift to them,
the newly born.
The chance —
to be bored.
Or amazed.
Or inspired.
Or, just alive.
And hopefully, maybe — just maybe —
Okay.
