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I found this fork in the road that makes its connection in the synapse
where we must redefine ourselves in this dying museum
and where our anxieties hide in the strange rain of sleep.
When darkness dies all diaries must be rewritten.
There are no more drugs to keep this skin tight
all gypsy cabs have reached their final destination and all trains
have made it to the devil's station where Walt Whitman's vision of America
dyes in unequal parts.
The factory doors have been closed with Andy Warhol's big sleep.
The wounds of the bullet still runs deep in the flesh of art.
Do you still feel Valerie's fragmented breath on your tender side?
The scars of the operation took years to run their coarse and you faded into the continued images of a dream and edited frames of the on going movie.
The strange rain has drowned the New York voice as the city turns back on itself.
The blue flame burns in the eyes of the Dexter house
where misfits smile with angelic fingers at the heart stem.
And I
Looked for the Buddha on the Island.
For $75 you get a massage.
For $100 more she'll get you off.
But you don't have to sink so low to make connections in lonely women's eyes or
to steal all the true idols between their thighs.
This is where the animal of instinct goes horribly wrong and we learn the art of losing
well
and forgotten.
The moment of clarity reveals herself with loving embrace 20,000 leagues under the cross.
Down here
where the magical reality fades
there's no butterflies circling our feet.
There are no more miracles to buy with the jewels in our eyes.
The wires of voodoo vibrates as the ghosts of the tenements recedes
into the lights of the great pinball machine.
When the finger of clarity penetrates gray membrane
that tears then recedes where the lights never touch
then we know we're not holy
only forgotten.
This dance is over
with pornography on our tongues,
the obscenity of the eye.
The moves were too smooth,
there was nothing left to create in gray skin.
And like a Zulu warrior we let out a great battle
cry that tore the fabric of time and we fucked the night away.
Now the real dance begins,
To reinvent ourselves or to cast the theater in flames.

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