eulogy for Jason Voorhees and his father Albert Camus

I hear the delicate clanging of
half-drunken flotsam; the mind
washing ashore
bone dry and miles from

the Crystal Lake of consciousness
and the macheted name of the father
becoming indistinguishable
through the goalkeeper mask of

Memories, aromatic and bound,
lead in ever-widening circles
tracing outlines
that will become the gravestones

of poetry unwritten. Xanaxed uncertainty
and amphetamined childhood:
counting amnesias
on one hand and nostalgia on the other

I question Sisyphus and the price
Camus paid for his absurd voiturisme,
scraping philosophies
off the asphalt in January's

impotent passion and passionate indolence:
these are the ambrosia and nectars
awaiting tomorrow.

like father, like son...