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Baby's ball is all blood red of flayed pigs |
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and silk soft little things |
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fill a house hung from strings |
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and I fly out on my silver, scissoring wings |
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(with the other sardines) |
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over cities of things mommies need -- |
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light as gas, and half-assedly free, |
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like I was in nineteen ninety three. |
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Over the ruins like we're staggering apes. |
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What we get is what we take |
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in a split open place where a man can get kinged |
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in a palace of panic and flames |
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where nobody gets blamed by the tired, |
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and broke down, and beat. In sunken gardens |
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where there was a street. |
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West over water I rambled and paced, |
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and the blood river raced like the sweat down my face. |
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And the stadium roared. And the warriors embraced. |
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And the golden shore groaned |
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beneath the weight of my tastes. And I blazed |
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in the last orange hours of the day, |
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until the dust hazed and hid us away. |
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So, little baby, be brave. |
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I see your dad riding over the rise, |
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crashing his whole cavalcade through the crowd. |
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Watch them run on all sides. |
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And the neon white branches, |
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and the carrion fly |
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on a congressman's eye |
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I have wrapped up for you in some old autumn leaves, |
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and left under a rock out on Rockaway Beach, |
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beneath the trees. |
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I have laughed my best hiss to the whistling breeze. |
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There's a hole in my throat. |
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You can note my last wheeze if you need. |
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And then take hold of the rope |
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and down we scream. |
