Sunday, July 27, 2008

In Good Company


The young, old fool
shadowboxing the rain
says he's lost 
everything he never had.
He stole a book
full of aristocrat's words
and fed his bad seed
to the birds.
When in good company
his holy bucket 
can't hold an ear.
Idiot tongue untied
and true.
He sings off chroma key
and blue.
The rest come in 
the wrong places.
What else can he do?
An organ grinder's
monkey  
fell off 
the midway wagon. 
Now he's outside 
the dining room window
playing the fool
for cigarette butts
and shots
of embalming fluid.
He shakes his head
and claims it's all a mistake.
Says he can reason
and wear a tie
but his card house
is held together
with wishes 
and scotch tape.
When the summer ends
and the organ 
goes to storage
he sleeps in a doorway
and eats 
in the alley
studying 
cat philosophy.
The billboards shout;
everybody's going on vacation,
everybody's having them,
everyone's nobility,
in the movie version of
the surprised fighter's 
autobiography.
He could never accept
that it took 
10 seconds
to make 
a decision.  
He lost his title.
He lost his girl.
He left this town.
Now he paints
crushed beer cans
on the side of
broken bottles
in the desert.
Every night,
he tells the dial-tone
on his unpaid phone
about the stars in the sky
and shame 
and lies.






 

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