A few beers and an amalgamation
of animal flesh and organs
will not nurture me, but at least it will hold
me over (along with, perhaps, some microwaved
leftovers). Will I remember
this exact cigarette on this stoop in this town
if I am lucky enough to be alive
a year from now?
Most likely these images will merge
into a rubber sphere resembling the unsatisfying
hotdog I just ate. A processed
and pre-conceived cinematic fiction-food
that my future thoughts will feed
upon in slight dismay. No, I will not remember each moment,
they will flow altogether into the river
of myself, then the bay of my generation,
while ultimately being consumed by the sea
of humanity. Grace is the will
to fight against the onslaught
when all else seems lost.
All I’ve ever known is resistance.