You are the answer to my last prayer
That I have kept caught in the cupped palm of my hands.
With the wind at your back a sparrow
That lives on Wichita St. is singing good-by
To the lost wind that once, just once, caressed you with its hands of encrusted bitter blood
And go whispering in the however and none-the-less hollow of your ears.
It is only your memories that I am stealing because
In a dream I told you which way to go and reluctancely you went and found the intersecting path where the origin of consciousness and the hallucination of birds meet.
You are the alpha male in my apartment where you used your strength against an unbeknown voice preaching the holy ghost of the know forgotten fight of angels that raged on the tip of a pin,
But I can see that you are weightlessly wrong
With your cover of lion’s skin stretched over your needs and wants that you keep in the pockets of your heart.
Without you I have nothing to do with your saints and sinners who are your only friends.
With your hands on my arm
I can feel the artificial tan of your serpent swarming skin
Dreaming like a rusted razor blade across my throat.
My mother never told me about men like you
Only because she never knew in the tiny rooms of her only knowing that the likes of you in a shadow room can be told about.
When the sun goes down you are a hard one to figure out
The self that you keep for nights outing can not tell time
Because saints put an angel in every one of your dreams.
The night comes on like a Leonard Cohen song
Wishing you well in the Chelsea Hotel where
You wrote you name on my dick
As if it’s something that you own
This is my last song coming on in a flash of pure destruction
I have learned to weep for the end in a sentimental key
You have got to love the way that I sing like Bob Dylan’s
Buckets of rain, never mind that it’s not the same.
My bones are the story of me not you.
Over the sea the gulls are on their own
In finding dry land in which to root and raise their young you tell me.
The sum of your longing is spent on the angels that will look after man when they can; if they find the time away from their eternal merriment in the heaven of men’s visions where they keep their stronghold.
You are the last sin that I have committed against an all knowing God that stands behind you.
One by one you have discovered the last wisdom that the sleeping head keep to itself when time have done all its telling; when the last telling is all told.
You can hear the freight train from where I stay
In its blow there is the quietness held down in the pine tree’s dispatch where there is a whisper about the milk spilled on the surface of the ocean.
I can not tell you even one truth that will keep you from falling into a funk of disuse.
I leave you on your own where time is told by the gesture of your terrifying heart that have forgotten how to weep for yourself when your body is in need of spilling its own water on the fire of an inner need.
You were my last lover; the last to discover that I will fight with the angels with words that come on a discarded breath and fall heavy with meaning like shards of glass that sparkle like a surgical needle sewing the voluminous wounds of sexual misbehavior.
You are the last dream of the night that sneak away into the darkness of my head when the sun’s light full of innocence spread its vapor over the streetlight’s hum.
You are an island unto yourself surrounded by islands unto their selves that connect in a spoken hello passed between strangers.
Only the poets can help you, you have forgotten how to look toward their wisdom now collecting dust in books that are clothed in the skin of words telling you where the angels and muses have retrieved to gather their breathe and sharpen their tongues on the right hand of Gods where the noxious evidence of power struggle to keep man in his place among the living creatures of earth keeping their arguments about the fertility of dirt close at hand.
