With a camera to record it
To invent, to trouble
Trouble as in any reflection

Brad Will, taken from the picture
Was it for truth’s brutality
Or an accident of beauty

Let’s invent heaven——since I don’t believe
But let’s invent
Heaven, so Brad can be there

Brad Will gangly enthusiasm
Pirate radio en Nueva York
I told my daughter

I knew someone
Who died last weekend
Was killed last weekend Why

For taking pictures Why would
Anyone be killed
Just for taking pictures

I don’t know why
I know why, but don’t
Or how to reply

Memory is troubled reflection
Troubled by imagination
By image making

Brad Will, friendly troublemaker
Let’s make a heaven like you saw
Let us, unflinching, remember

Without seeming to provide other examples
After the changes that rang
Although I would not pretend this seems
Exclusive. Desire to swallow the intimate
This is or will not swerve extended
Like the disk that will not play
Or pry intricate shambles from the maze of the popular
Until the blanks exhibit a kind of fucking
Which has been thrown against museums
Or thrust into livingrooms where the republican vice
Presidential candidate becomes an index of
Discourse by newsbyte puffery
To have an opinion not sampled, but equal
Upon brinks where liars swerved

We could extract this language in a cup
& Celebrate with ghosts only to find them reborn
As targets of blank history, soundbytes
Emptied of all silence

Is meaning embedded in fleeing?
The particulate in inattention
Filled up rapidly in the elated data
To have occurred there pivotally      is also ‘real’?

As real as all official lies (can these
Be part of our investigations, now
The future is ‘reborn’?
The imaginary a palpable bumpersticker

Where we are staged——if not finite
Prone, in fact, to diverse media
Leaving creep night factor real
At all points toward instigation, slipping

What is tomorrow? What is goodbye?