HOW THEY ALL
They've got the lights on in the
closets, yet every room is dark.
Kept that way, deliberately, to
manifest the problem, not the
solution. Ten thousand people,
at the drop of a hat, screaming
back. Nothing good at all, just
the old politics of death again.
Moonstone maidens and forested
riders, guys in black capes on tall
white horses. It's the middle of the
fractious night again and the only
things running are those old
German tales. Of the forest. Of
the woods. Bavarian black magic.
If I were a spider, I'd weave you my
web; or a snake, I'd leave you my skin.
As it is, I've got nothing better to give
than used air, high-mileage thoughts,
these words, and my grimace, looking
up at the sky as those white contrails
pass. Everything, to somewhere,