tell my mother not to worry

please, remember me
happily
by the rosebush laughing
with bruises on my chin
the time when
we counted every black car passing
your house beneath the hill
and up until
someone caught us in the kitchen
with maps, a mountain range,
a piggy bank
a vision too removed to mention
but

please, remember me
fondly
i heard from someone you're still pretty
and then
they went on to say
that the pearly gates
had some eloquent graffiti
like 'we'll meet again'
and 'fuck the man'
and 'tell my mother not to worry'
and angels with their gray
handshakes
were always done in such a hurry


soft music, and sewing, and thinking about road trips.

and the sad sweet melancholy of desolation angels,
a tired kerouac, done with it all, and ready to rest,
in his little cottage with memere. ti jean! she says.

"there's a great deal of resemblance between the dope fiend so called and the artist so called, they like to be alone and comfortable provided they have what they want- they don't go mad running around looking for things to do 'cause they got it all inside, they can sit for hours without movin. they're sensitive, so called, and dont turn away from the study of good books.."

and it makes me a little sad.

"every night i still ask the lord, 'why?' and i haven't heard a decent answer yet."