AND THEN HOW I
This is all the now: St. John of the Cross and
that dark night of the soul stuff. That's in the
been there-done that department, as old in time
as it seems. The dark curtains are covering my
eyes, and these people think I'm already dead.
There are lilies in big vases all around me, and
someone has put pennies on my eyes.
I dare not awake, they'd kill me.
Think about it anyway: what more is to be said.
Down on Forsyth Street all the ghetto boys I ever knew
lived there. And Stanton maybe too. It never seemed
right, and I loved it there, dark and bleeding dangerous
as it was. Knives came out at night, and I remember some
girl got stabbed to death for not having sex.
Every ten years a new batch of people start saying 'what's
the world coming to?' It just starts all over, for the new
bunch, but it's like a re-run for the old. And then the
world never comes to anything anyway - black presidents.
women pretenders, exotic embezzlers, and crooked cops.
The more things change, the more they stay arranged.