Sunday, February 19, 2012

In Tom Waits World

The clown, the rebel, the outcast
busking for coin
at the Witches Brew Tavern.
His time is different than ours,
the words are different,
who he is is simplified
for entertainment.
How much smaller he will be
to overcome with largeness
the horror of their eyes.
He puts their names in his song
and stares right into their gaze.
He's proud of stopping short,
at earning what they give
and walking in a long, diagonal path
the one that disappears into the night
away from kerosene street lights,
black webs hanging as if from an eyelid.

He eats like an animal in the dark.

He's proud he can appear
at different corners
in these three
black and circumscribed blocks.

He's finally glad he's alive
when standing in his boots
with his every possession
on his back, they're the rocks
he has to carry,
which he volunteered to hold
and can let go at any time
as soon as he's ready.
As soon as he's ready
he'll save people's lives
by pretending there's no blood.

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