Wedding Invitation

Just as Houdini busted Keaton

I want to name you Love

because how long your neck winds into your hair

marengo, war on wet asphalt smolders to gunmetal; below, each

iris shelters smoke like a blissed out execution

like those lungs of collapsed literary work

do now

but, miss, what inspiration

have you given me of late –

I am a beggar for such light touches,

any, really, would do the trick –

but aside from any causal belletristic sentence

spilled across my lap like a late last call

I have hated breakfast for three years now

because I haven’t slept and woken next to you since then

no matter how many nihilists and martyrs that I’ve played

in the intervening time

and I haven’t made eggs and pasta for anyone else since

the paprika and the parsley really made the dish, it was a good one

obscured like the singing of the books stacked by your bed

milk thistle, milk thistle – lead the way across the divided west

this dish no longer exists inside my kitchen nest

but after a protest and an election day

it was all a paranoid dream like hey, hey, hey,

SDS or SLA – tell me kid, what revolution do you want to start today

and it was weeks after

that all the newsmen seemed to ask for mercy

and gave their own begrudging curtsy

to the atomic tangerine-hued vulgarian with the political ambition of a hand grenade

and, again, after drinking for a week I made it home too late

to catch the show because that particular night I had thought that I had seen it played before

and right then

just like how Kennedy won Ochs his first guitar

I had won myself an actress

that looked like she could be cast as either a ballerina or a chipmunk

depending on the look that they had wanted

and I had read well into her

and saw in her all the blood of manifest destiny, terrified, and was mesmerized by

that false greatness

like all great bloodthirsty narcissists, in fairness, do

and I walked away into dripping speculation

that told me I was right over and over, right and right again

and made me hate the piss inside the jug

and the new history that will have to be written over night

but then again

now Adlai Stevenson has schools named

after him in states he didn’t win

as a two-year presidential nominee

and Kafka has been resurrected to build a cabinet

and I am tied to my time

forever now

like a wedding invitation

sent out before an ending world

— Jack T Tumult

Jack is a damned writer floating through the streets of NYC, and sometimes you can catch him performing poetry throughout different venues in the city like a drunken ghost; a few sweet, a few bombastic lines, and then he disappears into the ether. You can check out his work on his site, a short film he wrote,  and updates about future readings on Facebook

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