I told a crimson bird the secrets of the dawn
It bedecked the eyes of wayward wanderers
thrashing in the night
Diamond crested brews splashing on the lawn
capsules for the faint of heart
three morning glories
Vegas' spark, Vegas is dark
Emerald curtains to be ***** and forlorn
tethered at the seams In a half-worn tone
Drizzle on his cheeks; bruises on his knees
speaking French like a malnourished disease
Trotting across Bay Bridge In a blue jean dreg
tattoos of limericks and the horns of a stag
Reading tarot cards and tinkering with thugs
Passing around potions and drawing lady-bugs
Upside-down In chlorine pools
to beseech tea-leaves In Autumn
Where the weather is not warm
and the postmodernism creeps sullen
Caffeine infested speak
cooing cockatrices from the windowsill
telling all the neighborhood kids tales
that began as blank pages of dribble
In the alleyway they stumble
back to hotels of metal
carrying letters with water stains and ribbon