I have broken cups to bring to the rummage sale,
They come cheap off the highway.
Their chipped and worn clear through
Like the thin veneer I wear.
But their good for holding it all in.
I've dug holes filled with regret,
Misunderstanding,
All those sorry trips.
Soon it fades like a slippery dream.
Never blinking back the oncoming darkness.
Fathoming this wake
In the last of the flood.

This silent pen,
This flowing aromatic
This spare confessional,
This alchemy of light.

And you light a cigarette,
Prowl the room like a leopard.
And the trains run east to west,
And somehow this comforts you
On the way to your other gig.
And the sun roars against the window,
Your face,
Gliding up the road.
And you think of Yeats,
Shelly, the Shaw Of Iran,
Perestroika, Persian rugs,
Brahms And bikinis,
And you know your friends,
Watch your enemies,
Keep a checklist,
Forget the checklist
As the woman with the legs
Crosses against the light.

And the lights come up,
The movie's ended.
The streetlights shine in the mist.
You walk to your car,
And rain dots the windshield
As cars hiss up the street.

Letter to self: Roman Numeral 17 drug up on charges unrelated to the home invasion on Milwaukee Avenue-seen fleeing with female.
Learned secrets of the Serengeti. A catch torn to pieces. Note: Roman Colosseum desecrated. A raptor in the fan blades.
A diamond in the zealous.
Man, don't ride dem bones.
Some doo-*** ditty- bop of Saint and sinner, stewbums and deadbeat killer clowns.
Open, thy cup runneth over.
Loosen the ties binding to the bone.
The Rorschach Tune-Up Allotment Sale Now Through
Apocalypse Day 7.
Memo to Bixby: Gyroscope Hot Tub Blowout relaxing the flow chart boys uptown. A filtered out flummox of impedance Bixby, Jimmywalk spared the lewd and lascivious. Spike the routers Roman Numeral 17 seen in vicinity, Apocryphal papers flown to Helsinki. Eradicate memo with extreme prejudice. Yours Turner.

A silence consumes the cold depth of winter,
I wonder will death be as silent as dusk?
A cold room unlit in shadow
Winter holds the the small death of loss.
The cold comes taking birds with it.
Finches and sparrows nettled in branches,
Worry for the hawks ravaging claw.
In dusk I leave no trace my shadow.
My spirit gone to wind by dawn.

And it switched my man,
Ain't one found of his bones
Creaking in the closet
                         Upstairs,
With the bare bulbs and spiders crawling the dust
Of the night show
                     *

1965- you're the protagonist with your analyst at 280 an hour,
50 minutes on the shrink watch.
Staring in the oblivion of Tuesday.
                      *
And you remember 1942, and your ****** and your scared,
And you hide in the ***** dens.
You don't smoke it, you just low,
Knowing the hopheads won't hurt you.
And the old man can't find you here.
You wait for him to leave for work.
Because you wanted to **** him.
And you swore he'd answer for those moments.

I crawled into the belly of the beast,
It smelled of beer and *******.
It was as empty as a billion dead suns,
Hell between the tavern walls.
Sleeping off the new job at the cleaners, or the road crew, or the factory,
Whoever was hiring.
Happy to see your sorry *** go.
Picking your friends as you picked them clean,
Or they used you,
And you all went down together.
And you meant to shine like the stars,
But you spaced out to Pink Floyd instead.
Coke and voices and beer on the table,
You rode to the sun and shivered on the moon.
The glint of the mirror, coke on the table,
And everyone babbling at once.
And the coke runs out and you look like hell,
And someone cuts you a line And your somebody again.
Opening a beer in a cheap motel,
You come down as the day comes up.
And you dare not look at yourself in the mirror.
You smell like hell and your three quarters there.
You walk out the ***** motel
And the blind eye of the sun
Draws you back inside,
Back into the belly of the beast.