Pleasant Ave.

4 o'clock in the morning birthday decorations hangin in outer space, vacuum-black grotesque burlesque faded clown makeup kiss the bartender 4 o'clock in the morning the birds in the brambles sing scary diminished slowed down ragtime, I know those birds better than some people at the party, how their voices remind me half amiably that I'm out of time, out of the righttime when those still resembling humans pitch their ships and jawbones into the frozen paper, the thin flat smile of the beak split open slat v-ed 4 o'clock in the morning, 4:03, reminds me of the terror of other hours, the dismal fright always opening wider wider like sinking into the ocean chopping water as that sad look on the face of the Earth smiles with grief, this wrongtime of point of no return, feeling the apocalypse creep up on the species with hindsight, so even beauty becomes hard to bear - not only will it not last, but impending doom impregnates the sunflowers and such with a Never that pokes its head bulging under the skin, kicking around so the Never is ever so present. 4 o'clock in the morning reminds me of that choice I've made to be halfway between here and there now and then, shirtless all day under the Minneapolis mist. If I grew old and told a friend about 4 o'clock in the morning, he'd have reason to believe I'd lost it, such things are not preserved for more than a minute or two, and it's true, no one was around at 4am last night, 4am didn't happen, the birds made sure of that. I certainly wasn't there as I'd imagined, eating regurgitated berries and nuts and making love with the menstruating sunrise.