Suicides of the Nineties,


                                             you don’t need me to tell you we needed you and you were not nothing to us. Mimicking into stupor was a better guess at how to play ourselves—even I was on TV so I shouldn’t have to recount that either. We tried to say heathen but our mouths ended up spouting a music better suited for driving through a star-tarted desert. Creepy cowboy got an era, crossword lothario got years, but what do we call this shit? Might makes maybe, to put it mildly. Branches of science we haven’t invented or gotten around to suppressing would alter the hideous tides, keep us from killing what brings us alive. The whole world, to the extent that we can name such an invention, we have sliced open—I never did make it to physics class but with luck it’s not too late, the last so slow to leave so leave on all the lights.