The kids gather to stoke passion at forbidden hours
in places like my home. They shake their hips
and feast their ears on a waterfall of crashing guitars
like lemon juice. Drum sticks will fall from 4th floor windows.
Winking muses lean on exposed brick and underpriced paintings.
They put a dollar in the jar and help themselves to my fridge.
One in particular, waved a tambourine at 3 kings hours ago.
Now she spins on a half-pipe stage in my living room, singing sex.
If you could see from my eyes, this dreadful life we live together,
you'd understand that the dancing faces surround you always.
This place is a swirling anomaly; it's a microcosm for our entire planet.
It's more than my home, it's my fear of stars. It's my coded metaphor.
Come and meet the monsters, the hacks, the has-beens, the phonies,
the prophets, the prodigies, the new-comers, the dabblers, and thieves.
Meet the Healers. There's enough justice in the world for us all to feel it.
Tonight she licked a tambourine; tomorrow she will probably sleep in.