The famous last words,
When you are finished with the world,
After the deed has been made,
Or the blackmail has been laid,
Following the end of the job,
Or when lives have been robbed,
This is what they mostly say,
After swimming through every day,
Some are given the sweet remorse,
While others bury the neat discourse,
Not all are clean of debt,
Especially to their revenge of death,
Because they never died,
They **** everyone they like,
For every soul they vied,
Never reciprocated they vile pikes.

Death can do strange things,
like time-lapse photography,
undress those quite bored, or
make a patron saint out of a fool,
turning sleek idiots into monks
more mysterious than Rasputin.

What a place to drink, the casino
death runs, nothing fancy or beautiful,
a blind man called Dark Island
taking requests on a piano with keys
worn dull as bone handled knives.

A place the lost can find work, graceless
and not made in America without a living,
all these odd jobs death can do, like art,
factory smoke blown in the eyes of women
in Senegal making overalls for Walmart.

I witnessed a carousel of twinkling lights
Songs of nature filled the clear August night
Wet grass cooled each step
Two stars fell from the midnight Heaven , I made two wishes for Mary Ellen* .....

Southbound trains howl at one a.m.
Every whistle blast tremolos and wavers
The dead of night receives it's violent lesson , wheels scream like Banshees , the howl of tortured track running through the trees with
late night cargo bound for New Orleans* ...

Do you remember all the things we saw? There were a lot, but not as many as I thought. I guess my memories were just making love again, reproducing with my dreams of all that could have been.