Sunday morning in Cell-Block One

I can feel the oppression

When the cellhouse grows quiet

& only state-issued brogans

Send their lonely little messages

To those who are not listening

Little messages aimed at no one

& nowhere...


Down the hall –

Where the television echoes nothing

At all the stone walls and stone faces

Of all the nobodies

As they dream their little gray dreams

Of all that has been wasted


We are a living still life

But ... it’s still life

To me

Because of a technocolor dream

Of two

You & I were they


It reminded me of opium

That dream

I remember well

A dream from heaven

I will tell

Though dreamt here in this pit of hell


There were dreamy kisses at midnight

I remember the flavor of moonlight on your lips

The feel of the leather skirt that hugged your hips

When our lips met I knew the rapture of a feather’s fall

In that kiss – I knew it all


With that brush of a butterfly wing

I came to know everything

The dulcet melody in the song of birds –

To the painful inadequacy of human words

Some things are better left unsaid –

You said


In your eyes

And ask yourself...

NO -- not why --

NEVER why...

You ask yourself if you should have tried your neck

This is taking far 



And so few stories ... that are true ... have happy endings