Crawling into the Betty Davis song called Anti-Love Song,

I immediately noticed three things,
namely that I have gone insane,
secondly, that I am bound to go deeper and lastly,
I already like it better here.

Here the women of funk and
political fire all rule in an
easy, recognizable response
to the ownership of previous
and now forgotten Hero Tales.

Everyday is a baseline that
creeps from the quiet death bed

in Alaska, and trickles down,

Kerouac’s Big Sur,
finally erasing Jeff Buckley’s
lilac outline and finding the last little
fucker poet
and screwing him good
to the Good Fix, retired to a life of
sweet, sweet funk in recline.

Then I showed up,
dancing something like Marley
and bellowing like a drunker, more
Scottish William Wallace,
talking about Hailing A Ship
to New Funk.

That’s all I got before
the round rubber room men
came and got me
out of the bird cage I had been
occupying in some local
strip mall where
only the cheap parents still
creep around, hoping to
see each other but not be seen,
hoping to god not to have to have something
to talk about again
under those sickly tube lights in the
film noir produce section,
behind the tanning salon with
a razor blade, some surgeon
lurking after them.

You want layers Dr. Chinaski?
I’ll give you something to get lost on.