el topo

Some stories burn
on forever, page
after page–

little picture books
that royally stick
to the same nasty
progress, capturing

the same gentle wisps
of smoke peeling off
the same coated cigarette,

which (like our one
matching claim
as to God)
never quite ex-

tinguishes
while x
marks
the spots

where we perhaps
during the match
might retire too soon–
that or keep at it,

more and more fragilely,
traveling the cheap
wicks of our existence.
As it’s here today

on our own rotting span(s)
of plank until we’ve been
handed a red balloon,
black umbrella with which

it’s kerplunk!–off
the same fucking
diving board,

which some manage to grade
down to the splintery shiver
of a toothpick, preaching
from the sad gospel of their errors.

Perhaps, shaking their crystal balls,
just like so, so that it amounts
to the same deaf ear of getting

nothing in return but 8th-grade algebra
which then always seems to come tacked
to something you might have read over,
but too hurriedly, in the funny papers

while briefly chuckling to yourself, but with no reason as to why.