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Nightly, empty, luminous ballrooms roll back in your skull |
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I resigned myself to all the disappearance |
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I was sure the cops would come calling |
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Some sick shivering morning |
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I live in |
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Newark now where cars speed away |
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And weekend freebasers bury their stems |
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In shaded groves and muted clearings |
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In Philadelphia, we didn't know |
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Clammy hands and beaming thresholds |
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And I'm visited by naked reality |
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In the higher gloss of the cars that cut in front of me |
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And depression is nothing compared to what's in store for them |
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Having hitched across |
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AmericaLike an itinerant laborer |
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Or a serial killer on pulsing arterials |
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I numbly recline |
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In a filthy slicked lawn chair |
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As our garage yawns behind me with tunnels |
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The pinkest sky |
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I'd ever seen |
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Still pocked with dirigibles |
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And flying machines that opened up |
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I thought it'd begun hailing but amethyst and glass |
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Were raining down from an unmarked aircraft |
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Covering the cooling tar totally |
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In manufactured street sheen |
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I've been finding clipped-off |
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Parliaments everywhere lately |
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I take it as a sign that you're around |
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See J passed away |
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For the first time in |
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JuneAnd the last time last night in the |
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WarrenAs a warm, round, mournful sound |
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Flooded my room |
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Like blood does from the faucets of pitch-black bathrooms during adolescent summoning rituals |
