17th Ave

Cold nights hanging deep with Electric fish twitching in the brewing bubble tea for the Inconsequential on the eaves asleep. The every motion seems frozen as if pulled by unfeeling ties that grip your six-shooter dozen piling outwards. [islands of egos] The advent of hands, the end comes in pulses. Crowning brightly, the atomic goddess nightly let us (for a few dollars) look around her bends. The roads themselves are ever new, changing in the face of the inevitable neon virgins, and empty convertibles. Even concrete is not solid           [in the literal sense], when disease infects with logical collapse, but the blood [dripping]     of martyrs and faith of fools drive the machine [look what miracles we have won] on.             Catch-22 Blips in the shadows mark the passing of ants [how wise the acrobat] in the dark emptiness of infinite majestic royalty born of faithless and toneless majesty. When it ends, Back where it begins, The fog rolls back To the solidness they lack. I had the time, it Stopped for me [many apologies] Death rode on, dumping its mysteries.This written while desperate for sleep. Take at face value or maybe not? Written January 16th, 2002 © on Jan 17 2002 10:32 AM PST   0 • 9