the road may have been long'
but you were allways comfortable
with the top down in florida sunshine
breeze blowin away all thouse dark thoughts
man of your word
you sat in a moral court of small minds
and put up with her advances
and the ever present escapism
that haunts her every step
your words fire like rifles in the crisp dawn
but only the wooden soldiers fall
benith the bullets of your breadlines
she lay there with you'
and caressing the poor as she looks at you
with such tears
and such assembled broken heart stories
motherless and lost
the beggar passes his pan
your way
coins and a few loose buttons
times are tough under the I-95 bridge

this King Richard III fate
so unlooked for
disconcerting
i too should have perished in battle
...there are times
overwhelmed
i cannot see anything
but the darkness surrounding me
cannot see anything
but the desperate loneliness
of my tenuous perch
i seek out the eyes of thouse around me
only to see
ridicule or disdain
i turn within where from
time to time iv simply
been able to find strength and resolve enough
but its not always there
sometimes its simply not enough
this is one of thouse dark hours
in a hospital bed
facing death
alone

the hall walker slides along the wall
one hand brushing the cheap paint
his thin vacant face
etched in a shallow gasping for breath caricature
the hall walkers drifting steps
are across the carpets patterns
but no one objects
his neat and clean golf pro outfit
still clings to its filthy rich beginnings
suede leather faces
and the disdain they project

the hall walker has paused
to announce his desire to be on his way
to the blank wall
a poster nearby grins down at his madness
with a fateful message about condoms
lest the madness spread no doubt
he raises his voice
but to no avail
the wall remains ignorant

but we are far from alone
me and the hall walker
a stream of faces
the tight lipped impaired people
come in waves through the hall
like a strange tidal basin of the medical world
the floaters and driftwood
the gathers of shells
and thouse who seek to hide inside them still
this odd place of the infirm

a dozen bent forms
pushing canes
and mounted on wheelchairs
slowly fold the hallway
with the repeated ebb and flow
of their travels
the low electric sound of their hover-rounds
like meat grinders digesting a daily dose
putter past in steady stream
a nightmare vision of what awaits
the hall walker stops to ponder
the fate of his domain
his hall is no longer his kingdom
and they now shoo him into rooms
or out the door
rather than let him walk the line
between dark and light
that is the way the world decides

the hall walker
pressed his golf shoe
into the soft dirt of wet night
and smiled clean and real
recalling the scent
and releasing his grip
he follows the young nurse to bigger and better halls
to walk the wall

seventeen shadows
sit around the edges of the room
seventeen faces darkened by their days
blighted by the imposed image
broken thought and collapsed reason
seventeen shadows
under threat of night
one steps forth and begins to utter
carved words from the bedrock of emotion
that they all share
sixteen heads nod in unison
agreeable to the notions
sixteen hands launch the labor
of bending the kings english to the love of words
rather than the devotion to ideal
twelve souls remain hours later
unburnt by time and efforts
sweat bathed they break the silence
pay homage to the daily grind
'unto Caesar what...'
so the twelve sit in attempted rational judgement
weigh the matter with deliberate care
but the carousel is running backwards now
and the man with the funny nose and oversized shoes
is the caretaker and caregiver
to the dead and dying ideals of democracy
five more of the shadows in the room slip to the door
and flee
five remain standing
testament to the resolve
of mans inability to reason

the clock spins on down
time rollin on
hear the dead slouch through the darkness
the light yonder
aint one of dawn
its a burning
a burning in the souls
of man woman and child ever born
to see what shouldn't be seen
to do what shouldn't be be done
man has always been this way
nothing will draw a bigger crowd
than the forbidden fruit
than the pain of another human being
than the most perverse things
mankind's perverse mind can think of
the clock spins on down
time rollin on
age of man being able to destroy himself
the clock of doomsday
is always five minuets to midnight
they have chemical weponds in syria
they have nukes in north korea
aint no grave big enough
aint no funeral pire hot enough
for mans petty spites
for mans thirst for blood
we can put a man on the moon
we can spend billions for a war on drugs
but we dont spend a dime to stop mans fascination with
his own destruction