STREETS OF GOLD

Friday Poetry Fest

Poetry Picnic

d'Verse Poet's Pub

Through the dark

glassily

in a neighborhood where

loneliness is but a salt

shaker of dreams

in a port of stormy

maggots

leaning toward the light

toward heaven and its

prospects

prospecting for streets

of gold

to its holiest depths

when what is hell

is growing old

kicked to the curb

out in some suburb

of grease and candlelight

making the best of

one's shittiest days

where you wear

your scars on the inside

for all to see as something

that seems to be something

else

that seems to be something

else

that may not be what you think it

is

are you mental

too sentimental

it's elemental

to the essential meaning

of nothing

take the train to nowhere

where thinking invites pain

visions of a country lane

two sides of the same

coin

in a Buddhist trance

and I just want to see you

without any pants

and we can prance

into a frenzied night

from here to eternity

if you'll only

Be My Baby

be my baby now--a oww

oh whoah oh oh oh...