tip of the bomb



Lay me down at the edge of holy sacrifice.

I take a wife and name her Poverty.

No dowry means beans to me -

She brings me gold in honey for my tea,

She brings me gold in the skies of sunset seen from

            Seventh Avenue -

Swinging hands held,

            humbly holding a bottle of wine

            like a baby at her breast,

    cradled in the crook of her arm,

            crooked in the sleeves of salvation sweaters,

I let her breathe between my lips -

I put my hands on her hips and feel the freedom of her dance -

I taste the trance of her brown beer and smoky laugh -

I chased after her

            down windblown alleys of desire -

I chased after her

            past fires of gasoline danger -

I chased after her

            beneath the gaze of cathedral saints -

I chased after her

            beneath the gargoyle grimace of peeling paint

                        past the points of their pious wings -

I chased after her where the park bench sings out

            the "coo" of fat pigeons full of wonder -

I chased after her

            in the dark of full moon saloons

                        past shadows in the mad glow of cigarettes lit in

                        fits of desperation -

I chased after her

            back to the start of the first step I took

                        in the direction of her beauty.

Playing the part of the fool for love -

            lost on the corners of loneliness and jealousy,

            hoping to catch a glimpse of me

            past storefront glass

                        or in the reflection of gutter-gathered rain.

My heart beats voodoo for you,

            who are draped in rags of grace -

For you,

            who are dancing drunk at Sabbath dawn -

For you,

            who splay your lay across the bed of love

            with smiling eyes full of unremorse -

For you,

            who stay your course through the storms of your mind -

For you,

            who cry tears of happiness -

For you,

            who laugh for sadness a blues of pride and hope -

For you,

            who tie faithful knots in the rope they'd

                        hang you by -

            and for you,

                        who come to me when my steps have sense

                        enough to stop.