the aliens

you may not believe it
but there are people who go through life
with very little friction
or distress.
they dress well
eat well
sleep
well.

they
are contented
with their family
life.

they
have moments of
grief but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.

and when they die
it is an easy
death
usually in their
sleep.

you may not believe it but
such people do
exist.

but I
am not
one of them.

oh no
I am not
one of them
I am not even
near to being
one of them
but they are
there

and I am
here.

balloons

today
they shot a guy
who was selling balloons
at the intersection.
they parked their cars
at the curbing

and called him over.

he came over.

they argued with him
about the price of a balloon
they wanted him to come
down in price.

he said he couldn’t.

one of them started
calling him
names.

the other took out a gun
and shot him in the head.
twice.

he fell
right there
in the street.

they took his balloons said
“now we can party”
and then they drove
off

there are also other guys
at that intersection
they sell oranges mostly.
they left then
and they weren’t
at the intersection the next
day
or the next
or the next.
nobody was.

flat tire

got a flat on the freeway
11 a.m.
going north
I got over to the
side
a small strip
on the freeway
edge
got out the jack
and the
spare
went to
work
the big rigs
going by
blasts of air and
noise
shaking everything
and to top it
all
it was
cold
an icy
wind
and I thought,
Jesus Christ, mercy,
can I do this
thing?
this would be a
good place to
go crazy and
chuck it all
in.

but I got the
new wheel
on,

the old one
in the trunk
and then I was
back in the
car

I gunned it into
the swirl of
traffic
and there I was
like nothing
had ever
happened

moving along
with everybody
else

all of us
caught up in our
petty larcenies
and our
rotting
virtues

I gunned it
hard
made the fast
lane

pushed the
button
as my radio
antenna
sliced into the
sky.

blasted apart with
the first breath

running
out of days
as the banister glints
in the early morning sun.

there
will be
no rest
even in our dreams.

now all there is to do
is reset broken moments.
when even to exist seems a
victory
then surely our luck
has run thin
thinner than a bloody stream
toward
death.

life
is a sad song:
we have heard too many voices
seen too many faces

too many bodies

worst have been the faces:
a dirty joke that no one
can understand.

barbaric senseless days
total in your skull;
reality is a juiceless
orange.

there is no plan
no out
no divinity no sparrow of joy.
we can’t
compare
life to anything
- that’s too dreary
a prospect.

relatively speaking
we were never short on
courage
but at best the odds remained
long
and at worst
unchangeable.

and
what was worst:
not that we wasted it
but that it was wasted
on us:

coming
out of the Womb
trapped in light and darkness
stricken and numbed
alone in the temperate zone
of dumb agony
now running out of days
as the banister glints
in the early morning
sun.

Charles the
Lion-Hearted

he’s 95, lives in a large two story
house.

“they want to send me to a rest
home. ‘hell,’ I tell them, ‘this
IS my home!’”

he speaks of his grandchildren.
he’s outlived his
children.

he visits his wife who’s also
95.
she’s in a rest
home.

“she looks great but she doesn’t
know who I am.”

he lives on bacon, tomatoes and
breakfast cereal.

he lives on a steep hill.
used to take his little dog for
walks.
the dog died.

he walks alone now,
straight-backed,
carrying an
oak cane.
he’s 6 foot two,
lean,
jocular,
imposing.

“they can’t wait for me to
die, they want my house
and money.
I’m gonna live just to
spite them.”

I see him in his room upstairs
at night
watching tv or
reading.

he was married longer than
most men
live.
he still is
only she doesn’t know she’s
married.

he sits up in his room
on top of nine and one
half
decades
neither asking nor
giving
mercy.

he is an ocean of
wonder,
he is a shining
rock.

quick of mind,
so quick.

when death comes for
him
it should be
ashamed.

I so want to see that light burning
in that upstairs
window!

when it goes dark
it will be another world
not quite so magic
not quite so good

when it goes dark.

transport

I was a scraggly bum most of my
life
and to get from one city to another
I took the buses.
I don’t know how may times I
saw the Grand Canyon,
going east to west
and west to east.
it was just dusty windows,
the backs of necks, stop-offs at
intolerable eating places
and always the old
constipation
blues.
and once, a half-assed romance
with no socially redeeming
value.

then I found myself riding the
trains.
the food was beautiful
and the restrooms were
lovely
and I stayed in the bar
cars.
some of them were
so grand:
round curving picture
windows
and large overhead
domes,
the sun shone right on
down through your
glass
and at night you could
get
stinko
and watch the stars and
the moon ride
right along with
you.
and the best, since there was more
space
people weren’t forced
to speak to
you.

Then after the trains I found
myself on the
jetliners,
quick trips to cities and
back.
I was like many of the
others:
I had a briefcase
and was writing on pieces
of paper.
I was on the hustle.
and I hustled and hounded the
stewardesses for drink after
drink.
the food and the view were
bad.
and the people tended to
talk to you
but there were ways to
discourage
that.
the worst about flying was that
there were people waiting for
you at the airports.
baggage was no problem:
you had your carry-on bag,
change of underwear, socks,
one shirt, toothbrush, razor,
liquor.

then the jetliners stopped.
you stayed in the city,
you shacked with unsavory
ladies and you purchased a
series of old cars.
you were much luckier with the
cars than with the
ladies.
you bought the cars for a
song
and drove them with a classic
abandon.
they never needed an oil
change and they lasted and
lasted.
on one the springs were
broken.
on another they stuck up
out of the seat and into your
ass.

one had no reverse
gear.
this was good for me,
it was like playing a game of
chess-
keeping your King from getting
checkmated.
another would only start
when parked on a
hill.
there was one where the
lights wouldn’t go on until you
hit a bump
HARD.

of course, they all died
finally.
and it was always a true
heartbreaker for me when
I had to watch them towed off
to the junkyard.

another I lost when it was impounded
on a drunk driving
rap.
they sent me an impound bill that was
four times larger than the purchase
price
so I let them keep
it.

the best car I ever had was the one
my first wife gave me when divorcing
me.
it was two years old,
as old as our marriage.

but the last car was (and is)
the very best, purchased new for
$ 30,000 cash. (well, I wrote
them a check).
it has everything: air bag,
anti-lock brakes, everything.

also, 2 or 3 times a year
people send a limousine
so we can attend various
functions.
they are very nice
because you can drink like
hell and not worry about the
drunk tank.

but I’m going to bypass that
private plane, that private
boat.
upkeep a rental space
can be a real pain in the
butt.

I’ll tell you one thing, though,
one night not so long
ago
I had a dream that I
could fly.
I mean, just by working
my arms and my legs
I could fly through the
air
and I did.
there were all these people
on the ground,
they were reaching up their
arms and trying to pull me
down
but
they couldn’t do
it.

I felt like pissing on
them.
they were so
jealous.

all they had to do was
to work their way
slowly up to it
as I had
done.

such people think
success grows on
trees.

you and I,
we know
better.

the bluebird

there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him
I say stay in there I’m not going
to let anybody see you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him
and inhale cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that he’s in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him
I say stay down
do you want to mess me up?
you want to screw up the works?
you want to blow my book sales
in Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I’m too clever I only let
him out at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say I know that you’re there
so don’t be sad.
then I put him back
but he’s singing a little in there
I haven’t quite let him die
and we sleep together like that
with our secret pact
and it’s nice enough to make a man weep
but I don’t weep

do you?

in the bottom

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the smoking claw
the red train
the letter home
the deep-fried blues.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the song you sang together
the mouse in the attic
the train window in the rain
the whiskey breath on grandfather
the coolness of the jail trustee.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the famous gone quite stupid
churches with peeling white paint
lovers who chose hyenas
schoolgirls giggling at atrophy
the suicide oceans of night.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
button eyes in a cardboard face
dead library books squeezed upright.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the octopus
Gloria gone mad while shaving her armpits
the gang wars
no toilet paper at all
in the train station restroom
a flat tire halfway to Vegas.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the dream of the barmaid
as the perfect girl
the first and only homerun
the father sitting in the bathroom
with the door open
the brave and quick death
the gang rape in the Fun House.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the wasp in the spider web
the plumbers moving to Malibu
the death of the mother
like a bell that never rang
the absence of wise old men.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
Mozart
fast food joints where the price
of a bad meal exceeds
the hourly wage
angry women
and deluded men and
faded children
the housecat
love as a swordfish.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
17.000 people screaming at a homerun
millions laughing at the obvious jokes
of a tv comedian
the long and hideous wait in the
welfare offices
Cleopatra fat and insane
Beethoven in the grave

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the damnation of Faust
and sexual intercourse
the sad-eyed dogs of summer
lost in the streets
the last funeral
Celine failing again
the carnation in the buttonhole
of the kindly killer.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
fantasies tainted with milk
our obnoxious invasion of the planets
Chatterton drinking rat poison
the bull that should have killed
Hemmingway
Paris like a pimple in the sky.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the mad writer in the cork room
the falseness of the Senior Prom
the submarine with purple footprints.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
the tree that cries in the night
the place that nobody found
being so young you thought
you could change it
being middle-aged and thinking
you could survive it
being old and thinking
you could hide from it.

in the bottom of the hour
lurks
2:30 a.m.
and the next to last line
and then the last.

be kind

one is asked to view their
total error
their life-waste
with kindliness
especially if they are
aged.

but age
is the total
of our doing.
they have aged
badly

because they have lived
out of
focus
they have refused to
see.

not their fault?
whose fault?
mine?

I am asked to hide my viewpoint from
them
for fear of their
fear.

age is no crime

but the shame
of a deliberately wasted
life
among so many
deliberately wasted
lives
is.

eyeless through space

it’s no longer any good sucker
they’ve turned out the lights
they’ve blocked the rear entrance and
the front’s on fire;
nobody knows your
name;

down at the opera
they play checkers;
the city fountains piss
blood;
the extremities are
reamed
and they’ve hung the best
barber;
the dim souls have ascended;
the cardboard souls smile;
the love of dung is unanimous;
it’s no longer any good sucker
the graves have emptied out
onto the
living;

last is first
lost is everything;
the giant dogs mourn through
dandelion dreams;
the panthers welcome cages;
the onion heart is frosted
destiny is destitute
the horns of reason are muted as
the laughter of fools blockades the air;
the champions are dead and
the newly born are smitten;
the jetliners vomit the eyeless
through space;
it’s no longer any good sucker
it’s been getting to that right
along

and now it’s here
and you can’t touch it
smell it
see it
because it’s nothing
everywhere
as you look up or down
or turn or sit
or stand
or sleep or run
it’s no longer any good sucker.
it’s no longer any good
sucker sucker sucker
and if you don’t already know
I’m not surprised
and if you do sucker
good luck
in the dark
going
nowhere.

nirvana

not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to
somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.

he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arrived.
the meal was particularly
good
and the
coffee.

the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher,
in back,
laughed, a good
pleasant
laugh.

the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.

he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.

the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.

then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.

the young man
thought, I’ll just sit
here, I’ll just stay
here.

but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.

he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.

then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.

the young man
looked straight
forward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.
they had not
noticed
the
magic.

the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the snow.

this (concert) (video clip)

self-congratulatory nonsense as the
famous gather to applaud their seeming
greatness

you
wonder where
the real ones are

what
giant cave
hides them

as
the deathly talentless
bow to
accolades

as the fools are
fooled
again

you
wonder where
the real ones are

if there are
real ones.

this
self-congratulatory nonsense
has lasted
decades
and
with some exceptions

centuries.

this
is so dreary
is so absolutely pitiless

it churns the gut to
powder
shackles hope

it
makes little things
like
pulling up a shade
or
putting on your shoes
or
walking out on the street

more difficult
near
damnable

as
the famous gather to
applaud their
seeming
greatness

as
the fools are
fooled
again

humanity
you sick
motherfucker.

surprise time again

it’s always a surprise to some
when the killer is that clean-cut
quiet boy with the gentle smile
who went to church
and was nearly a straight-A
student
and also good on the athletic
field,
kind to his elders,
adored by the young girls,
the old ones,
admired by his
peers.

"I can’t believe he did it . . .”

they always think a killer must
be ugly, gross, unlikable,
that he must give off signs,
signals of anger and
madness.

sometimes these kill
too.

but a potential killer can never
be judged by his
externals

nor a politician, a priest or
a poet,

or the dog
or the woman
wagging
tails.

the killer sits anywhere
like you
as you read this

wondering.

jam

that Harbor Freeway south
through the downtown
area –

I mean it can simply become
unbelievable.

last Friday evening
I was sitting there motionless
behind a wall of red taillights
there wasn’t even first gear
movement
as masses of exhaust fumes greyed the
evening air
engines overheated
and there was the smell of a clutch
burning out
somewhere
- it seemed to come from ahead of
me –
from that long
slow rise of
freeway

where the cars were working
from first gear
to neutral
again and again
and from neutral back to first
gear.

on the radio
I heard the news of that day
at least 6
times

I was well versed
in world
affairs.

the remainder of the stations
played a thin sick
music

the classical stations
refused to come in
clearly
and when they did
it was a stale
repetition of
standard and tiresome
works.

I turned the radio
off.
a strange whirling began in my head
– it circled behind the forehead
clock-wise
went past the ears and around to the
back of the head then back
to the forehead
and around
again.

I began to wonder
is this what happens when one goes
mad?
I considered getting out of my car.
I was in the so-called fast lane.
I could see myself out there
out of my car leaning against
the freeway divider
arms folded.
then I would slide down to a sitting
position
putting my head between my
legs.
I stayed in the car
bit my tongue
turned the radio back on
willed the whirling to
stop
as I wondered
if any of the others
had to battle
against their
compulsions as I
did?

then the car ahead of
me
MOVED
a foot
2 feet 3 feet!
I shifted to first gear . . .
there was MOVEMENT!
then I was back in neutral
BUT
we had moved from 7 to ten
feet.

hearing the world news
for the 7th time
it was still all bad
but all of us listening
we could handle that too
because we knew
that there was nothing
worse
than looking at
that same license plate
that same dumb head
sticking up from behind
the headrest
in the car
ahead of you
as time dissolved
as the temperature gauge
leaned more to the right
as the gas gauge
leaned more to the left
as we wondered
whose clutch
was burning out?
we were like some
last
vast
final
dinosaur
crawling feebly home
somewhere
somehow
maybe
to
die.

spark

I always resented all the years
the hours the minutes I gave them
as a working stiff
it actually hurt my head my insides
it made me dizzy and a bit crazy
– I couldn’t understand
the murdering of my years

yet my fellow workers
gave no signs of agony
many of them even seemed satisfied
and seeing them that way drove me almost
as crazy as the dull
and senseless work.

the workers submitted.
the work pounded them to nothingness
they were scooped-out and thrown away.
I resented each minute
every minute as it was mutilated
and nothing relieved the monotony.

I considered suicide.
I drank away my few leisure hours.
I worked for decades.
I lived with the worst kind of women
they killed
what the job failed to kill.
I knew that I was dying.
something in me said
go ahead die sleep
become as them
accept.
then something else in me said
no
save the tiniest bit.
it needn’t be much
just a spark.
a spark can set a whole forest on fire.
just a spark.
save it.
I think I did.
I’m glad I did.
what a lucky
god damned
thing

within the dense overcast

the Spaniards had it right and the Greeks had it
right but
my grandmother, heavy with warts, was
confused.

Galileo did more than guess and
Salisbury became what?

the brightness of doom is anybody’s
mess as
donkeys and camels are still put to
use.

Cleopatra would have loved
Canadian bacon and
nobody speaks of the
hills of Rome
anymore.

the curve ball curves
and vanilla icecream is always
overstocked.

600,000 people died in the
siege of Leningrad
and we got Shostakovich’s
Seventh.

tonight there were gunshots
outside
and I sat and rubbed my
fingers across my greasy
forehead.

palaces, palaces,
and oceans with black
filthy claws.

the shortest distance between
2 points is
often
intolerable.
who stuck the apple into the
pig’s
mouth?
who plucked out his eyes
and baked him
like that?
Cassiodorus?
Cato?

the aviators of May
the buried dogs bones
the marshmallow kisses
the yellowed fleece of sound
the
tack
in the foot.

Virginia is slim.
Madeline is back.
Tina’s on the gin.
Becky’s on the phone.
don’t
answer.

I see you in the closet.
I see you in the dark.
I see you dead.
I see you in the back of a
pick up truck on the
Santa Monica
freeway.

The perfect place to be
in the rain
is in the rain
walking toward a
farmhouse
at one thirty
a.m.
there is a lone light
in an upper window.
it goes out.
a dog howls.

the nature of the dream is
best interpreted by the
dreamer.
sthe snail crawls home.

the toes under a blanket
is one of the most magical
sights
ever.

wood is frozen
fire.

my hand is my hand.
my hand is your hand.

the blue shot of
nerve.

Turgenev
Turgenev

the cloud walks toward
me

the pigeon speaks my
name.

flophouse

you haven’t lived
until you’ve been
in a Flophouse
with nothing but one light bulb
and 56 men squeezed together on
cots

with everybody snoring at once
and some of those snores
so deep and gross and
unbelievable
- dark snotty gross subhuman
wheezings
from hell
itself.
your mind almost breaks
under those death-like
sounds
and the intermingling odors:
hard unwashed socks
pissed and shitted
underwear
and over it
all
slowly circulating air
much like that
emanating
from uncovered garbage
cans.
and those bodies
in the
dark
fat and thin
and bent
some legless armless
some mindless
and worst of all:
the total absence of
hope
it shrouds them
covers them
totally.

it’s not bearable.
you get up
go out
walk the streets
up and down
sidewalks
past buildings
around the
corner
and back up the same
street
thinking
those men
were all children
once
what has happened
to them?
and what has happened
to me?

it’s dark
and cold
out here.

the idiot

I believe the thought came to me
when I was about eleven years old:
I’ll become an idiot.

I had noticed some
in the neighbourhood
those who the people called
‘idiots’.

although looked down upon
the idiots seemed to have
the more peaceful lives:
nothing was expected of
them.

I imagined myself
standing
upon street
corners
hands in pockets
and drooling a bit
at the
mouth.
nobody would bother
me.
I began to put my plan
into
effect.

I was first noticed
in the school yards.
my mates jibed at me
taunted me.
even my father noticed:
“you act like a god damned idiot!”

one of my teachers
noticed
Mrs. Gredis of the
long silken
legs.
she kept me after
class.

“what is it Henry?
you can tell me . . .”
she put her arms
about me
and I rested myself
against
her.
“tell me Henry
don’t be afraid . . .”
I didn’t say
anything.
“you can stay here
as long as you want, Henry.
you don’t have to talk . . .”

she kissed me
on the
forehead
and I reached
down
and lightly
touched
one of her silken
legs.
Mrs. Gredis was a
hot
number.
she kept me after
school
almost every
day.
and everybody hated
me
but I believe that I
had the
most
wonderful
hard-ons
of any eleven year old
boy
in the city
of
Los Angeles.

oh, I was a ladies' man

you
wonder about
the time
when
you ran through women
like an open-field
maniac
with the total
disregard for
panties, dish towels,
photos
and all the other
accoutrements-
like
the tangling of
souls.

what
where you
trying to
do
trying to
catch up
with?

it was like a
hunt.
how many
could you
bag?
move
onto?

names
shoes
dresses
sheets, bathrooms

bedrooms, kitchens
back
rooms,
cafes,
pets,
names of pets,
names of children;
middle names, last
names, made-up
names.

you proved it was
easy.
you proved it
could be done
again and
again,
those legs held
high
behind most of
you.
or
they were on top
or
you were
behind
or
both
sideways
plus
other
inventions.

songs on radios.
parked cars.
telephone voices.
the pouring of
drinks.
the senseless
conversations.

now you know
you were nothing but a
fucking
dog,
a snail wrapped around
a snail-
sticky shells in the
sunlight, or in
the misty evenings,
or in the dark
dark.

you were
nature’s
idiot,
not proving but
being
proved.
not a man but a
plan
unfolding,
not thrusting but
being
pierced.
now
you know.

then
you thought you were
such a
clever devil
such a
cad
such a
man-bull
such a
bad boy

smiling over your
wine
planning your next
move

what a
waste of time
you were

you great
rider
you Attila of
the springs and
elsewhere

you could have
slept through it
all
and you would never
have been
missed

never would have
been
missed
at all.

peace

near the corner table in the cafe
a middle-aged couple sit.
they have finished their meal
and they are each drinking a beer.

it is 9 in the evening.
she is smoking a cigarette.
then he says something.
she nods.
then she speaks.
he grins moves his hand.
then they are quiet.

through the blinds
next to their table
flashing red neon
blinks on and off.
there is no war.
there is no hell.
then he raises his beer bottle.
it is green.
he lifts it to his lips tilts it.
it is a coronet.

her right elbow is on the table
and in her hand
she holds the cigarette
between her thumb and
forefinger
and as she
watches him
the streets outside
flower in the night.

Dinosauria, we

born like this
into this
as the chalk faces smile
as Mrs. Death laughs
as the elevators break
as political landscapes dissolve
as the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
as the oily fish spit out their oily prey
as the sun is masked

we are
born like this
into this
into these carefully mad wars
into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
into bars where people no longer speak to each other
into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings

born into this
into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes

born into this
walking and living through this
dying because of this
muted because of this
castrated
debauched
disinherited
because of this
fooled by this
used by this
pissed on by this
made crazy and sick by this
made violent

made inhuman
by this

the heart is blackened
the fingers reach for the throat
the gun
the knife
the bomb
the fingers reach toward an unresponsive god

the fingers reach for the bottle
the pill
the powder

we are born into this sorrowful deadliness
we are born into a government 60 years in debt
that soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
and the banks will burn
money will be useless
there will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
it will be guns and roving mobs
land will be useless
food will become a diminishing return
nuclear power will be taken over by the many
explosions will continually shake the earth
radiated robot men will stalk each other
the rich and chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playground

the sun will not be seen and it will always be night
trees will die
all vegetation will die
radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
the seas will be poisoned
the lakes and rivers will vanish
rain will be the new gold

the rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind

the last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases

and the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
the petering out of supplies
the natural effect of general decay

and there will be the most beautiful silence never heard

born out of that.

the sun still hidden there

awaiting the next chapter.

you know and I know and thee know

that as the yellow shade rips
as the cat leaps wild-eyed
as the old bartender leans on the wood
as the hummingbird sleeps

you know and I know and thee know

as the tanks practice on false battlefields
as your tires work the freeway
as the midget drunk on cheap bourbon cries alone at night
as the bulls are carefully bred for the matadors
as the grass watches you
and the trees watch you
as the sea holds creatures vast and true

you know and I know and thee know

the sadness and the glory of two slippers under a bed
the ballet of your heart dancing with your blood
young girls of love who will someday hate their mirrors
overtime in hell
lunch with sick salad

you know and I know and thee know

the end as we know it now it seems such a lousy trick
after the lousy agony but

you know and I know and thee know

the joy that sometimes comes along out of nowhere
rising like a falcon moon across the impossibility

you know and I know and thee know

the cross-eyed craziness of total elation
we know we finally have not been cheated

you know and I know and thee know

as we look at our hands our feet our lives our way
the sleeping hummingbird
the murdered dead of armies
the sun that eats you as you face it

you know and I know and thee know

we will defeat death.