there are the stacks of want
like scouts blowing forth fire
and all happens in ribcage meadows
Come mountain out of molehill these thirty and some year
where one finds one might start
the cast adrift
where mere reflections of the limited light
in some hara-kiri fit dressed in drag
maggie may would’ve had something to say
those souls said it warn’t natural
But Shanghai Lil, she said it’s as natural as ploy
but i broke the news:
not so for a red-herring, father-less boy.
it’s the one over there
you fool with the wrong page of the wrong book
these thirty years of leaves
for i chose the wrong Inferno
and there’s little chance of light
among the shot-to-death seraphs
on each streetlight bent
and in the alleys
now let us go to church my friend
you and i
spread out against the sky
to find ones no longer asking the how, when or why.
