Dear Babylon,

Once upon a Summertime by Gil Evans is as irresponsible as a fairy or free niggas. As us hugging boats and smiling. The way his tone leaves you stupid as blue lake no. 1, an additive, sped up and pitched down, ducking bullets and big lights, another Adderall addict, healed of attention as a broken child, heralded in the wild odor of shy lavender and burning servitude in the service of not anarchy but some hip nudge between brothers about to leave up out the rhyme. Don’t ever let anyone break you, eyeshine, roulette, you, and I. But did you want to recover (anyone)? Did anyone want to, or the new earth too, recover?  Did you want that self back, the patented only-the- impossible-happens one drowning in Sundays. I had started to see paradise in mass extinction  a jagged winking mirage of new area codes,   new hoes, hoses cobraing in black and white photos  above the protest as   you chew the dangling leg of an octopus, gather its eight hearts in afterglow    in   Agharta, in the middle  of us   tweaking  on the cusp of  the moss agate on my kitchen faucet like a lost gate parting    soft dirty green    be  mine,   earth    sleazy minor key,  be gone.  I had started to like us again. Slanged as candy good as gold, us. Letting life imply its opposite, I had picked a side. Bye bye, daddy,  and Babylon, to  be alive   there is no wrong  way     to  be the song so longed for    to slaughter  all the others