All my friends are in pain
I can see it burned deep
The cattle brands
On their cold grey faces
Francis Bacon paintings of the street
People are so much younger
Then I remember them
Vibrant
Searching but still lost
In a world full of bastards
Drifting to their own advice
Quiet minds
Sifted and strained
Through some
Personal electronic device
Their dreams drain me and draw me out
Conversations like club-music
Winslow Homer in the background
I can only feel compassion
I can only believe
One day you’ll grow up
And then maybe you’ll see
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
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