247/365

you’re a fat fuck.
and you’re running clothes
don’t fit right. you should
consider a bra, which is weird
since you’ve always been
the scrawniest person in the group.
you sport khaki shorts
and draft a fantasy football team.
middle aged clone placing safe bets,
wearing a safety preserver.

all of us with wings.
all of us with wings.
all of us with wings.

jane’s addiction is
the worm hole
into a past so familiar that
you can reach out and touch it-
it’s yesterday in that apartment
on natoma, the silver shirt and
your cousin up from santa barbara
for the show with ken kesey
at the bill graham auditorium,
you're in the stands,
with that vest from the indian restaurant
with the tiny mirrors. you are a disco ball
forgotten in oblivion, lost in it,
and floating across time. a delayed acid test
in muted tones.

young men need to understand  
that we are hanging on for dear life.
it matters just as much to us as it matters to you.
the music is just as loud and the stakes are just as loud.

the hair is white,
the gut is large,
the fire still burns.