Driving through a song on AM radio
like I was in Biloxi fifty years ago
or in 1950 Mexico with Jack and Allen
writing sad stories and verse with no end.

Reminiscing about past lives and songs
is only a lie laughing at me wrong,
like being lost in a poem of war.
Dark children die in ocean’s roar.

We all have less than the moment before,
this no end temporary terminal time core,
only sad existence is white noise.
Commiserate over some dying rose.

Voldemort rides the golden lift’s last breath.
TV talking heads worry about someone’s beaded dress.
Planets do not align with raven’s flight.
Coyote hides in a dry desert night.