I remember a cup of sugar half a lemon dark red cherries in a crust of pain crumbly falling into a hellish oven fired like she told me, 375 In search of peace, I pray to forget the pain remember a fragment a recognizable fondness without stains baked in Because in blood she's gone, I've dreamt of her flying through the windshield unsheathed grief a steel shard poking in the night, bladed blame stabbing me, I've fallen asleep too much, letting her wiggle back into my bed with screams driven around the maple red syrup on pancaked body splayed from brave speeding guts driving death too slowly for agony, her nerves still alive for howling pain mourning for morning in heaven, but she waits in dreams because she's gone not far Awake, I still look for her charming me like all the times we drank together just fooling around Steer me to insomnia and don't tell me I shou'n't 've been driving around fallen leaves of growing blame I am innocent though I hear her cries as I pull green leaves, rake others, a chore I take to stay awake, yet mangled words I hear from green veins turned red rustlers stealing steel hearts to rust I can't drive this hell away from the tree, because she was smashed in a pulp novel dream all real Lord, I've dreamt of her because she's gone Don't let me listen to her songs booming my soul sorry ways down Down the road to regrets remembered: my friends who died in battle like period clumps the size of Seattle, because of these I must eat pie and beer suds, cherry filling that looks like blood, the sting cherries like sudsy guts I must rest in a restaurant slicing beef filet like dicing shrapnel from hell that beats down fox hole hearts in cherry rivers heat. These pie marks stain the brain though gaining ghosts have no beef with me, as I was brave then to try to save them and me, but I will desert dessert Too sweet a lie that life is like a pie thrown out of a disco by me gin high on despair, falling in snow, cutting my hands on ice crystals, watching the Angel of Death seized by her anti-muses dancing her mocking prelude to my own booming grief death amused by lean harvests of thought and lost jobs I dream of her in song because she's gone Because I will not sell my boom box for food, away from boom times I'll dance into sadness. Fresh batteries will let me live. I will dance north past the winter wheat into the cold, to the arctic. If not stolen in silence my music soul will dance me, murky joy forward pumping bends thrusted stamping, panting moans spin tapping down the up beating soul bursts desperate to express a tone of noise splashing. I will not die laughing wet when batteries are gone. I will die dancing an old Eskimo parading on ice flows, horns of mortality played strings strummed, no chords encore chafing from chaff inedible Flying Without Feather Ado
