There was a Murder

He and his friend were John Lennon fans
and on a rare visit to his home, we jammed.
He was tall and ill dressed, the type
that dropped sheet music in school hallways
and ran like a girl, but no one said anything.

His brother had stayed in his bedroom
next to the music room almost all the time.
Later i read he had pornography plastered
on every inch of every wall -- slept with it,
comfy like a womb.

I saw the one that got away at a track meet
still with rope burns around her wrists.
She was the quietest silence i've ever seen.
After all these years, this is still-life
like old photos.

litter two

Tom Waits curbside crooner underbelly
wit of Hollywood Boulevard, racing forms
and New York Times littering graffiti
all in oral magnificence.

To those who look, the striptease
has a Babylonian logic, a Neanderthal charm.
That and a shot of Richards for the change
in your pocket.

Since the big bang of the twentieth century we've
been anxious to make peace with what we've done.
Shaded by a Stetson, serenading a bottle
is an honest place to start.