I racked my head for a poem;
some stack of words to say "good morning, pray you are well", but stacks swell and topple messily on my hands to your eyes, so

"Good
Morn-
   ing
Jaz-
  mean,
     cruel,
         fate
    to wake to
  one star,
and not
  another."

Beauty wears a short, black dress of olive silk skin.

    She lies poised on the couch, drained of her special sleep.

    Yet still, light pours His fingers down her figure, sleek and thin.

    The face of her dress smiles behind the glasses guarding her deep brown eyes.

    Beauty chose the slender sweet slits for her lips.
    They match the dips her hips outline on her gown.

    Her legs sit dainty off the side, but her flushed-red scarf wraps her cheeks,
And hides quietly in the back.

    She sleeps soundly dressed true black, with her small eyes cracked.

Even the Earth bulges
and wobbles like a fat man
stumbling through orbit.
The stars crash,
or sicken and die,
bloated like an alcoholic,
and galaxies devour
with gaping jaws,
fangs of light.

Everything perfect from a distance,
like a city from above.
Downtown L.A. from the hills,
peaceful and quiet.
We gaze out on a
clear spring morning,
nod and feel like Kings
surveying our domain,
and all is well.

But down in those trenches,
on skid row sidewalks
lined with tents
the junkies and ******
the insane castaways.

We drive by,
glance through
windows closed
against the stench of ****,
roll through red lights
until we reach a block
of clean glass and steel
skyscrapers, and breathe,
unclench our *******,
and shake our heads,
wondering how.

And is the view
from the hills
or a car window
or a skyscraper
on Bunker Hill
more true
than from the eyes
of a drunk on the sidewalk
on Hollywood boulevard
watching tourist feet
shuffle by
stepping on stars
in 200 dollar shoes.