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The strangeness is, my life has not been strange:

I’ve lived my death in fear for many years.

Priorities, by now, are prearranged:

The single fuck I give is in arrears.

“I love you, friend.” There’s nothing else but this.

Fuck money, god, and what the neighbors think.

That last gold drop of hope to tongue is bliss,

as bitter, thick, and acetous as ink.

A passion play trumps nightly through my head.

The flash—the crash—another star explodes.

We’re making funny faces late in bed,

two wacks against two gigaton payloads.

I often wonder when the bombs will drop.

Perhaps a world in eighty didn’t pop.