SICK UNTO...
Death. And the old Rambler,
parked at curbside - half a century
old already, limping, leaking, leaving.
Puddles of oil where once the sweet
Byrds sang. Fifth Avenue Presbyterian
Church. Gaucho Corral and all those
gay boys, choir-singing themselves
to Death. Again. Mention at your
own peril. When Cult becomes
Culture - isn't it true - we're
all in trouble. Double. Trouble.
-
Weltschmerz. Gotterdamerung.
Wiener Schnitzel. Oberamaggau.
-
The hand on the light bar is
controlling the stage. Things go dark,
go light, go dark again. We don't know him.
Don't know who even let him in. Mention
at your own peril. Or mine. Death...
and the old Rambler, sinking at the curb.
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