i keep finding myself in the darkest of places like the cold alleyway in the junkyard last night behind the bar "goodbye blue mondays". i was standing there alone in the middle of the debris and found-art, an old radio playing Gene Austin, the naked women inside posing for the artists, i thought i could die there, or maybe you'd materialize out of the shadow in the corner like an angelic vision, walk over to me with a sympathetic look and my spirits would inflate in that instant. the way you look in pictures, i'm certain you have wings hiding where i can't see.
but i didn't, i escaped. i entered the bar again through the back door and crept my way through the tight packed space of people drawing, bumping into some with my bag of books. it was a long journey through the crowded space only to be let out on the other side, the cold streets of the hood, beneath the L in Bushwick. driving down the bumpy roads, shadowy figures on the corner peered into my car, habitually I checked the rearview mirror for police lights. emptiness filled my car. i wondered where my angel of the passenger seat was. a demon with a toothy grin rode shotgun, flashing in and out of sight like a static TV coming back to life. light beams reflected off glass everywhere, on storefronts and passing cars while i took long diversions just to get back on course.
it's only music or dreams sometimes that save us from the long lonely night. on this night there weren't any except the burning hot seat of desire. the sound wind makes as it whips through a hollow log.
the sky was a low hanging ceiling that was upholstered in dusty old canvas colored the darkest of midnight blue. it was hard to breathe. the lions were hungry.
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