please

please tell me that the stars are not our vultures, hovering
that the light they bleed out into darkness surrounding the
lanterned world is for us to use with ancient measures of
navigational lore, following the twins, leaving the bull
behind us with the crab and the scorpion as our protector.

please tell me something I will listen to,
I am sick of masquerades that devolve into Dostoyevsky,
mantlepieces thrown across the banquet table by some
drunken soldier.

please help me answer to the presence of no questions
when they should be warrented, like how I got arrested
for walking across the street and asked where I thought
I was going after my ex-father informed me that he was
protected from danger by the ghost of a dead baby that
hovers over his head like a shining plastic ornament,
please tell me that justice is not an agency of man
for the laws we seem to learn are only concerned with
limits of velocity and prison philosophy, please tell
me that tonight the stars will burn away the archaic
haze that poisoned our vision since the inception of
the camera of the eye, please tell me that you love
me without material conditions but that when I fuck up
you will do what is best for the both of us, please tell
me that the songs I sing are quaint and without effect
because I would hate to be lulling all these internet
sojourners into a false sleep with the mistaken beauty
of a few bright colored words here and there while the
sentences war with each other, letters raised like iron
swords across the meadow of the page.

and please, please be your kind self upon the plains
of community, please tell me something, but with
immanence and importance, and please, please, please
tell me the truth, and please, (this is my last request),

please promise that this time you will make it right.