---“even death will have exits like a dark theatre”—Charles Bukowski
felony face
cuts down the alley
like a cold breeze
police sirens
sing the same name
as last night
darkness covers
the bloody footprints
of a young desperado
as he stumbles
inside the gentleman’s
john—rundown exxon—
a spider-cracked mirror
hides out-of-luck eyes
hard as roman nails—
bony back to the wall
he slips to the floor
laughing
at nothing at all
shaky tones falling
into a full-blown hack
bell-cracked saxophone
bouncing
death-rattle tones
round & round
the obscene sanctuary—
top floor of hell
holding cell
that smells
like a waiting room
for the cemetery
