Wingéd Words

When the crow alights
upon the sinister hand,
a true thing & a lie will fly
to the circumference
of the sphere wherein the speaker
is interred.  The demagogue
blows smoke at the sun
as the planets arch above.
Fix gaze on the black star, bilious
swinger.  Let the words
on wings roll you mercurial to
the bearded flame of a jukebox's
torch song, an angel on
your shoulder & its twin
tethered to you by the invisible
string of long-resented obligation.
In deprivation, ponder the rune
on the dark side of the moon.
There's no coin
left in your loincloth because
the loincloth itself is long
gone -- it rotted away, disintegrated,
leaving you chafed from the
unforgiving rub of plexiglass --
yet you have faith the songs'll continue
unbidden.  Hear another from
the diva who called you here in search
of splendors, her promised favors
nothing but another cruel hoax played
on another foolish traveler who
felt so far from home.


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