A wise man
Questions his own ideals
A fool worships them

The light of the television
dimly lit two
lovers,
but not really.
He stunk of wine
from the lips and
mauve teeth,
she stunk of wine
by proxy.
her legs, only slightly
unshaven, he stroked
gently, which they
both enjoyed, but
not really.

***** pots, plates, and
cutlery lay placid
in the sink.
They'll be washed
sometime soon,
and put away in  
cabinets of wasted
white wood, very soon,
but not really.

The floor, like them,
began growing clothing
like wild moss or ivy,
and claimed the room
& claimed them too.

The movie, he'd recall,
but, then, she would
not.
He watched the blood,
and conflict,
and at times laughed,
and she saw him,
and conflict,
and didn't laugh at all,
which he knew was strange,
but not really.

On the dim, small, screen,
The lean and hungry man had his
Nemesis on the
sepia-tone ground,
and finished it all,
with rage and mercy,
with a stomp
to the
heart.

They watched, her eyes wide,
for she knew this was
them, her on the ground,
and him in the air, and she gripped
him a bit tighter,
which he noticed,
but not really,
which she noticed,
but not really.
In the dimly lit room,
they could not see
they were alone,
and it was true,
only Bruce Lee & He,
and She.

The beach still looks the same
As I trek through the sand
I can hear Clarence playing
Along with the E Street Band

There's where Jay's used to be
And the stone pony too
The pony's still there
But it's doesn't look like it used to

I started running in 1973
I guess I was always born to run
I've been running ever since
But now it's not any fun

I survived living in this
Forsaken jungleland full of freaks
And still the music's playing
Down to the backstreets

On that night she was there
You know she's the one
And Clarence wails away
He can't be undone

And I hope we will all be
Meeting across the river
Roaring up thunder road
For I am still a believer

Down on thunder road !

Your name has meaning not to me
for I want the bat and not some trick
you use to hide your nightly guise,
the one I’ve come to
idolize

There’s many reasons you and I
have chased the cats and not the mice:
the rats have trouble keeping up,
the cats will scratch you but with
love

I don’t seek the face behind the mask
for I want layers upon layers—
upon dusk
to hide a face that might prove
you’re just a man and I’m a
fool

First it’s the pearls—little moons falling in the puddle
and the rain has made sure to make it just deep enough
for the muddy water to cover their shiny surface.

Then the gunshots—one,
two,
echo through the alley and you’re certain someone will be standing
at the end of the dark pavement,
at least around a nearby corner,
and they’ll hear you, hear the gunshots again
and again,
and again.

Because you do.

It’s the blood you notice last—the muddy puddle
that’s slowly being fed by a red liquid you’ve only
seen one more time before,
(you fell)
and suddenly the bats return from the dark cave—you
have scared them.

Years after the pearls,
and the gunshots,
and the blood,

but not after pearls,
and gunshots
—more blood,

you realize the bat doesn’t symbolize your fear of
falling,
but it was the shape your parents’ blood took when a
J and a C painted their portraits.

At the end of the alley,
at the end of an alley,
at the end of many alleys
stands a masked man.
It does resemble you an awful lot.