She was there.
Her hair
as black as she could get it.
Eyes fixed on a hole in the wall,
with no expression whatsoever.
Telegraphing love for forgotten thoughts.
Tapping her foot - she's one with the sound;
the louder, the better.
She takes her drink straight,
her breaths shallow,
and her history as black as she can get it.
She pulls cigarettes from her back pocket,
puts one to her lips, then fingers a locket hung around her neck.
It takes her somewhere else for a second
before she reaches back for her lighter.
You can see her eyes begin to wander in the fire,
and you're drawn in to wonder and admire.
Keep your eyes attentive... honest... on her,
and off the credit unions, coffee shops, and condominiums
raised up to keep out the third-world hells we won't give a thought,
churches that line the streets of the old neighborhoods,
monuments in places that 'good men' once stole,
strip clubs, strip malls, where graffiti on bathroom stalls
shines with no promise for tomorrow.
And I won't swear allegiance to some bullshit thought
or some fucking job!
This world is dirty,
and I'd lick the sidewalk clean
if you'd let me believe it all could be
beautiful.
She was there.
Her hair
pulled back off her pale face.
Slight fingers running over a page
tracing words only she can speak
in the patterns of thoughts forgotten
by a beauty that is lost on them;
more hours, less laughter.
She casts a smile faint,
her eyes infinite,
and her history as black as she can get it.
I ask her for her sickness
and she throws up a magazine.
I ask her for her love
and she tells me such things can never be seen.
I ask to see her faith
and she tells me of her dreams:
about how she takes the worst parts of herself
and the best she sees in others,
how with them she molds the definition of beauty.
And I love it.
And I believe in it. To see it in her eyes.
"Still," she sighs,
"Isn't it depraved; child care with a sex shop around the corner?
... Isn't it sad to think?"
And I tell her, "depravity...
but worse how they sell to the same clientele!"
This world is sick,
and I'd lick the disease off the street
if you'd let me believe it all could be
beautiful.
Credit unions, coffee shops, condominiums...
Strip clubs, strip malls, privacy walls: our downfall.
Good people, but a fucked up cult!
I want to believe we all can be beautiful, good people:
better than a fucked up culture.
