Sharp as a razor

I slice through the world

And you can hear it acknowledge me

With a yell

I fry the silence in a pan of books

Reading from London Fields into the air

Finnegan’s Wake, Plays well with others

Mothers and their daughters…

I am content to fly through the streets

At night, when calm is upon most brows

And the gigging hopper begins his screech

And stars glitter and shimmer, each to each

And love looms almost within easy reach

That is when I observe the crimes of man

I see what they do in the alleys

And on the pulpits I watch them spew out a covering of moral rectitude

That takes a while to hack into

I see the One-Skirt woman at night

In the day she is a paradigm in a trouser suit

The crystal ball swivels on mesmerizingly

You see images in it, you see events, you see that most of what’s bad has passed

You enforce a landing geared at retrospection

And as your wings settle by your sides, you look around down the miles

What you see always makes the future more interesting

And you turn to face it

When a man stops beside you and surprises you

“What may I do to be less a lot than what I am?

And the man who neither breathes in or out

And his hair is a living mop around his head

Passes a photograph of your latest enemy before you

“He is from My Son whom I love,” he says

“Listen to him”