The New Bland Me Naive

[sweetwater]

The New Bland Me Naive

it was late in the summer glaring by sea
the sand that gathered between
the hanging tree

and water reflecting
the image of the new bland me naive

it was late at night
approximately 12 in the morning
when night turns
the clock by hand

before Bukowski threw up
on his dinner plate
upon learning that his dog
impaled the virtues
of his bone

where life imitates the virtue of an art

the lilt and data journal
on the desk before the summer began
after dinner magazines books and
dreams of libraries without coffee

lay open the silent summer
long into night
in reign
to beg the words of a differing lament

the tiring debate of mind and theory
the slow decay of memory
on the highway toward
the absence of metaphor

became the irony of a long night
by woven fabricated fallacies
of lore