Catalina headlights crawl up the wall. You lay in bed as
Momma and her new boyfriend spill drinks on the table, Slurring of love on Sunday. I watch for headlights sliding up the street. Probably to one of
The ***** bars with the watered down 7's and no
Luck at all, and bad breaks,
Strung out sad lunches
And a whole lot of lurching
At the moon.
Down by the bog with
With willow the wisp
And old black men with half pints of whiskey fishing
Carp from the ***** river.
And I mix concoctions, libations thrown to the sun,
Blind reasons cast to the moon. As I fill these memories to a bitter cup
Filled with clown tears and
Black roots of beggars and bums.
An effigy dug to the dirt.
While you dream of painted sails and sunshine buried
Beneath the rails.
Pink moon, pink moon,
What harbinger you bring me? Dead leaves and Black beetle dirt beneath your
Pinkish light.
As I cinch my my tall boots
For a walk in the muck.
I've got to scream yet I have no mouth. Though I can't let on, it may take me to darker water, As my mind turms
To gray cinema, Shadows and streets wet in the rain.
And I worry for a moment
Of waking on the sun,
As black clouds lead you deeper in movie,
Where Starlets sail off the canyons to the California surf
As I lie on broken bedsprings
And ruminant in saucer shaped thoughts spinning
Into orbits and Black hole stars.
A thousand lights on the river, These bright and
Dark sun devils spin
The stratosphere.
Waking to shadow,
The headlights run up the wall, I follow them
To the top of the ceiling.