Someone always showed up with drugs. Someone is always saying they have the wings you crave. The stars seem to circle the sky, arranged at last in the form of a breakneck schooner. You see children's faces a lot, and it makes you sad.
What is the object of clarity and what relationship does it have to hesitation? Night after night with Jack Daniels, long mornings of black coffee. There's something you can't piss away, no matter what. Dreams, not prayers, were the mode.
Raise a chorus for the limping soldier, the one who got lost before the big battle, won't you? We are all the wings of angels now, all circling the Heavens like spiraling halos. The agenda blurred, driving us like lunatics for the safety of maps. The adjective does not define you the way you think it does.
A door opened and a temporarily popular man rendered a judgment against us. That was the late eighties - drunken nights and empty train tracks, men and women who wanted me to write poems about them. Your vision is my twelve by twelve inch album cover. I said okay a lot, I remember that.
So it hurts, so what? Those trails and those dogs aren't supposed to be salves. God is after what happens after the break, after the acceptance that even healing is a distraction. You say you were miscreated? I say that Love makes no mistakes, and the whole journey - even this, even now - is a witness unto perfection.