The Beginning of My Now Last Year (to depress God, or so He tells me)

The last birthday I will see
Only slightly surprising
Just short of remarkable
Midnight on a postage stamp

Having spent the day
With rum and wine and sleep
Repeatedly interrupted
But finally, I arrive at the moment’s turning
Imposing stature, with no fragrance
Or mending of children’s tattering hearts
My memory has not left my father’s
Crimes behind me

Listening to Françoise Hardy’s
“Ca a raté”
Walking the line towards
Another fish in mud with cut grass
And ironed curtains

Happiness only comes in the form
Of the unborn
Those not blessed with eyes hallowed
By God and pierced in such a maligned manner
To depress God.
Listening to Françoise Hardy’s
“Oh oh chéri”
At the final summit
In the sight of only myself

No more angelic visitors
Just God Himself
I apologize, I was wrong in my thesis
God really does present Himself as male
Much to the fermenting
Edict of my desired intellectual treason

Listening to Françoise Hardy’s
“Le temps de l’amour”
Avec toiling stunted sheets
Blinding Homeric stanzas
With spilled wine in the evening
Recalling Lou Barlow
In his youth
When we were all full of vision

Now the only vision stands attached to one of my bookcases
A trace, an outline, speaks to me with a still small voice
Whether the music is loud or not
No matter the time of day
God has been here so long
I have run out of questions
And have no reason to stare

I know this will be my final year
My body could not possibly handle another
My mind will only die inside if I must endure
This minuscule inversing doorway
There are no monthly celebrations
There are no momentary selections
There is only monetized empathy
Surrounding and surrounding
And destroying the senses
Listening to Françoise Hardy’s
“C’est à l’amour auquel je pense”