jigger blood
pumping neatly
only an ounce
and a quarter

My old man used to take me to the track
Showed me how to key the top horse
Sprinkle in some long shots, he’d say
Oh, and son, it takes money to make money

He’d smoke his stoag’, pound his beers
Imploring me with his simple wisdom
Life is way too short not to...
Not to what dad? Just not to

He never played the favorites
Even money is like kissin’ your sister
And win bets?
Well those are for *******

My formula was simple
Name + color + number
Times the square root of lifetime wins
Divided by the odds, plus two

We studied the programs in silence
A father and son crack team
And usually not on purpose
We’d make the same ******* face

I was eleven when I hit my first big one
Trifecta box, because I wasn’t a *****
Paid almost two large
Never made dad more proud

Steak and lobster on my son!
We went to Ruth’s to celebrate
I tipped the waiter a hundred
And fell asleep on the drive home

It’s been over a decade since
And about a dozen girls
Always done after they go down twenty
Always win, place, and show

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Whose life partner is beauty
Who makes more sense in a minute of listening
Then we do in a lifetime of talking
Who paints olive trees and cypresses
And now knows it's not called crazy
It's called pain, and it will pass

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who wakes up an hour before he falls asleep
And yet, never stops dreaming
Who rewrites morality with every fraction of information intake
And remixes truth until we're left bobbing our heads
With no other choice than to just feel it

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Whose children are freedom
Who walks in the rain while we plain get wet
Who wants nothing more than to want nothing more
Who only makes routine out of celebration
And love

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who ties masterpieces to rogue kites
And whispers nonsense into researcher's ears
Who knows that nobody is perfect
And takes the words "meant to be" very very seriously
Who exists
And is **** proud of that

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who revises his rewrites of morality
When information intake is remixed by reality
Until we're left shaking our heads
With no other choice than to think

Wait for me
And save me a glass

the stillness is falling
stretching
window to window
beneath the frog leaps
innocence
at the end of the wick

children used to play here

choked down
and full of lonely
sent by cave paintings
and fallen priests
bleeding
perhaps breathing

my princess used to pretend

baptized in black oil
a haunting
a hidden roar
between our skin
handwritten
in the raw mixture

now, we listen for the howl