I Can’t See Anything

I can’t see anything but dog’s asses and
mutilated twilights
I would like to venture forward
into optimistic hope
not only of human survival
but also of the survival of human
thought and music and art and painting and
history,
but you know it’s like an inside tip I got from
an inside source:
I see it all dragging down
turning to burnt bacon
crippled van goghs begging pennies from
crippled madmen,–
anything conjured like that,–
it all goes begging and boggling
down the twisting landslide
past the valleys
the tar
the condemned and zero laughter of the
audience wailing.

          you know,
          all that’s come to this
          is everything we’ve deserved

the dark is empty;
most of our heroes have been
wrong.