the fool as brother supine on a stretcher,
his hair grown long, grown overnight, grown too
soon long like he might be dead
you'll never get out. you're too far in.
we'll never toot a New Orleans-style funeral
in your brain
tracing back the stroll to your grave,
we will only play
the sad songs.
partners in cryin'
they vandalized by tearing away
at the paper tablecloth in
the rest home.
they were the sobbing
Thomas Sterns (the dope-worms and I)
our ghost is a horse
a horse as if
we're still riding through the forest with
the Elbe in our hair
is like a liquid stride
from prideless little hot rooms
dissolved in spoons
on toward the limbless wild and cold,
almost comatose on side streets
as the haunting hits
it's a little diner
and it's almost empty:
only one piece of cheesecake in the revolving
so sad, that-
and this sad thought:
one day we'll just say good-bye
(or maybe not)
and then you'll just