Marilyn Monroe’s pale shimmering face reflected in an oil puddle in the middle of the
lost Highway
whose unyielding anxiety for direction continues until after the horizon into the
depths
of faded voices, whose last sighs breed the
tunes of Melpomene

Walking the lost highway,
we reach the ragged skirts of a City
houses: ruins, animals: wild
fiendish eyes stare at us from behind bloody drapes
behind the corners: a dream, a grave

The hooded man approaches,
his steps guided by the wind,
his arms raised, stretched out, inviting us to their embrace

‘Father’, he says, ‘my holy Father, my holy Father, forgive me!’

Pretending to know, pretending to be, we are.
his teeth are yellow, edgy ruins overflown by a red cascade,
his hands reach for us, his meager, bony hands

Lightning

A flame shaped as a lightning crosses the dirty gray above
and mirrors in the man’s bursting eyes
and he falls
and we step Over
and cross the oil

The town behind us
that dirty old town
we feel like the gunslinger
deserted, alone
and keep on Walking
walking
walking
Walking
until we see

Until we see where the stars shattered on the Realm of Man.