I would write an obituary for the four word infection called hope, parasitic at its prime and poisonous at its primitive, if I believed that ink stained fingertips could craft an antidote. I stay up waiting by the phone to hear the empty drone of the line, I paint my nails to watch them chip. Good to go, going nowhere fast. I stand with one foot in the door and the other in desperation. My ego wears a sling. The kids who sleep on their folk’s porches never watch the sun rise, anyway. Every backyard beach on Long Island sings a song with the same chorus; don’t climb on the jetty. My car is broken down on memory lane. I’d rather switch gears. Seasons change, people don’t. The tunnel of love is carpal, nothing more. Sources say sex is an indulgent distraction; I love the mayhem more than the love. I am tethered by baptism to a god who knows nothing of me. We bathe in the solution of understanding every morning, rinse our bodies clean of it each night. We are snared on the freshly honed fish hooks of reality, cast away for sport. They watch us nosedive from grace, pick and peel at our humanity, and continue to pretend that they too haven’t heard the whimper of sirens. We pray to the patron saint of liars and fakes. A lunatic of a god watches over the god of the lunatics, and believers never die.