Groan

This is the rain man crying –
sane man bleeding but
red dirt has no love.
Kurt Cobain, your feedback
promised me release, but
the fuzzy orgasm is yet
to come.

Bring our purple nights back –
the yellow flickering
of dead lamp post.
Truth is still out there,
buried under reruns of X-Files,
now in high-definition,
and just as dumb.

Truth is a mirror in veil –
a tiny movement.
How long can a southwest
mind cope with the loss
of a mothership
before those synapses
go on the bust?

–Johnny White