So said Crazy Horse
as he stopped mid-Market
to found a gentlemen's club:
"My confession booth has
a hole in it, and a video
monitor which takes dollars."
Good Catholic girls
turned bad, running from Dad
the cop, applied eyeliner
and danced in red light.
The Indians were killed long ago.
Careful, Six Pence:
don't move a muscle
we are refining your soul
don't you know, winnowing
out what ought not be there --
the better to render it up
to heaven. Everyone else
thinks us angels
(naturally, that's everyone
in our circle, not yours.)
I see sparkles
that don't belong --
Fragments of glass
no doubt. We want
them out. (Our
wants outweigh
your need; our whims,
your life.)
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