"Lonely as a dry and used orchard spread over the earth for use and surrender.
Shot down like an ex-pug selling dailies on the corner.
Taken by tears like an aging chorus girl whos gotten her last check.
A hanky is in order your lord, your worship.
The blackbirds are rough today like ingrown toenails in an overnight jail--wine wine whine, the blackbirds run around and fly around harping about Spainish melodies and bones.
And everywhere is nowhere--the dream is as bad as flapjacks and flat tires:
why do we go on with our minds and pockets full of dust like a bad boy just out of school, you tell me, you who were a hero in some revolution. You who teach children. You who drink with calmness. You who own large homes and walk in gardens. You who have killed a man and own a beautiful wife. You tell me.
Why am I on fire like old dry garbage.
We might surely have some interesting correspondence. It will keep the mailman busy.
And the butterflies and ants and bridges and cemeteries, the rocket-makers and dogs and garage mechanics will still go on a while until we run out of stamps and/0r ideas.
Dont be ashamed of anything; I guess God meant it all like locks on doors."