"Film spectators are quiet vampires"
Jim Morrison
The creatures of this street are dangerous poems
I will not bleed for nor ignore - Oh Sweet Jehovah! they're wicked souls I saw massacre the buffalo as I sat in my chair by my window
listening to Sunday radio shows; sweet Hank Williams and Patsy Cline,
sunlight dangles a gold-laced tongue our hours would like to swallow.
The man from Corwood Industries sells his musical tobacco and his snowstorm woes at my door, and I have let him in to murder me; I'm disappointment to smell his aftershave
and nothing betrays the horrors of his credit card.
A foreign man walks and walks his sad sad morning to his places in the sky
God and evil will not dream of.
Children in the supermarket are smiled at by the twisted steel columns of adult failings.
They have done nothing to justify this love. When they become astronauts and killers and fools I will know them and give sufficient praise.
On my face is a tattoo of some of the things the Almighty
worked hard to make as beautiful as he could.
I am not a fool, I am subject to these beautiful mercies
and I will wear my clean and respectable shoes to church.
A dead railroad line haunting its killers is welcome in the tombs of my dreams
where death is a mumbling fool and light is the man
with the screaming body clasping the bones of sunrise.
If my dream was made from those bones and sundown spoke its words,
its water would wiggle a way to a moon my front porch seat looks almost paler than
