The music of hurt
brought to you by the misery
of conviction
now a subsidiary of
the lie police who,
like it or not
have got your number.

Kicking stones along
the empty John Carpenter streets,
singing Happy Halloween with
Silver Shamrock masks.

Ripping through verses of a variety
of obscure poets can wait, we need
to deal with the waning booze situation.

The courage to belt out Arcade Fire
3 am, rooftops everywhere,
they are calling it some kind of cult,
but you know the rule of haters.

This kiss was brought to you
by Gibran, Jack’s and a sweet look
you gave me 8 summers ago.

Girl in the rain, boy in the blue
kid in the crowd,

talking to you,
just you,
and you.

Come here, into the center of the thing.

Credit where it’s due.