The Last Hours of the Last Day
Poetry
Every evening the sun floods down Sunset Blvd. and into my corner bedroom,
In a three-bedroom duplex condo,
on the corner of Quintero St.
I spent so much time in that room
Writing,
Pondering,
Resting,
Recovering.
And it would appear to me, that time is disappearing.
There is no schedule.
No deadlines.
But there are plants,
There is music,
There is light tucked into every corner of this space,
There is warmth.
It is reflected and spread out even further when the mirrored doors are closed.
I could reach out and touch it.
Bathe in it,
Taste it,
Swallow it,
Let it fill me up.
Wrap it up around me as if it were the curtain itself,
More arbitrary each day it hangs, unattended.
The room doubles in size when the mirrored doors are closed.
In its reflection, you can see your friends,
Gifts from loved ones that keep you warm and looking sharp,
As if to hug you from across the country and across the world, whenever you need.
Artifacts from community past let you time travel to a place you can afford.
A place to share food,
Music,
Dancing,
Conversations about the neighborhood changing and not a single backup plan for that.
Fears and insecurities about the future are aided with late night company,
Discussions of shadow governments,
The military industrial complex,
Water on Mars,
Extraterrestrial Intervention in the past,
Star Children,
Speculation about the future of politics,
Social Economics buried under our scattered ashes of a nation.
We chase each discussion with half-full beers from last night’s show.
A pack of cigarettes, for anyone with a sleeve of papers and an iron stomach
sits piled up
in a makeshift ashtray,
on a makeshift bar,
in a makeshift venue,
in a makeshift home.
A potpourri of bodies and color sleep peacefully in the corners and nooks of these spaces.
Tomorrow, each one of them will be waiting to greet with open arms
Behind every one of these doors.
And even in the darkest, sun ridden spaces here,
There are lights strung up just carelessly enough to make out a silhouette of a friend.
To see every new face,
every faded, crinkled wheat pasted gesture,
to the time we spent together.
The sun warms my face and I am back here,
Tracing each line and age marker as they move
From my forehead
To my eyes
To my nose
And to my mouth.
And yet time seems arbitrary
The safer I feel in this room.
Time’s construct is crumbling around me,
Suspended,
Majestically in mid-air.
Time is now as tangible as the guitar on my bed,
Or the pen in my hand,
And that time is free
to be reconstructed,
With full fucking intent.
I am warm.
My body is healing.
My muscles are relaxing.
My face is clean now.
My knees feel softer.
My hands are softer.
My toes are warm.
They are free:
From the protection of falling steel,
From rolling machinery,
From pallets of materials.
All of these moving parts,
Set in motion
To construct the design for a fabricated experience.
All of these materials used and destroyed for Experiential Design.
And none of these materials will be houses or shelter.
And none of these materials will be planter boxes.
And none of these materials will be public schools.
And none of these materials will be public libraries.
And none of these materials will serve structural purpose.
And none of these materials will keep anyone outside of this space safe.
These materials will bring no community to or from the outside world of this completely fabricated industry.
These materials will produce
A temporary illusion of a disposable structure,
That will temporarily host a disposable idea,
For temporary jobs for disposable humans.
These materials will bring hours of labor to a small few.
These materials will feed some of them more than others.
These materials will send some to opulent homes where they will safely raise their children, Send them to affluent educational institutions,
Where they will grow, thrive, succeed,
Exercise critical thought and be held delicately in the arms of Academia
And into a world of shelter and comfort,
The likes of their parents, and their parents before them.
These materials will send others home to budget
The cost of
o Groceries
o Utilities
o Shelter
o Car Repairs
o Vices
o Material comforts that may fabricate some semblance of sanctity for human life and value within themselves.
These materials will send some home
To look their partner in the eye,
For a brief moment,
Before rest,
To remind them that
o They love them
o They miss them
And that they will continue working towards a place of
o Stability
o Reasonable living,
o A place they can share someday with friends and family.
o A space to host music, free of the venues that gatekeep our genres
o A space to host dinner, free of the establishments that gatekeep our recipes
o A space to host imagery, free of the museums that gatekeep our fine art
o A space to host books, free of the institutions that gatekeep our thoughts
o A space to host youth, free of the governments that gatekeep our future
o A space to host fertile land, free of the industries that gatekeep our food,
o Our neighbors,
o Our free and natural resources,
o Our evolution,
o Our community,
o Our kindness.
The sun warms this floor under my feet
The soft finished surface of these maple planks keeps me grounded.
The sun warms my feet.
They are free from the constraints of leather and lace that have cast their shape,
Cast seventy thousand hours of work traversed above the soles.
They no longer stand at attention to the gatekeepers of our time.
