On a street of red doors,
I am a red one.
See what you will,
Try that you try.
I will always be both ends
Of a solitary shooting star.
One fine end will slice thru god’s sides.
The other will betray
The trimmings of a lifelong lie,
That I was all right in the crowd.
And I didn’t give all my heft,
In blood and sinew and deadly passions,
To put up a superior parade for you.
I will be that dusty contrail,
In kaleidoscopic wild blue yonders,
And then. Alas. Anon. Ere long. Etc.
Just when I come into some mercy,
The private sparkles
Held in vibrant pixels will rupture.
Little dancing red hearts at the frame of gay faces appear,
And a cold-day memorial of aromatic candles is planned,
As kith and kin with penetrating questions scratch heads,
As the tattooed man plucks a banjo.
On that street of little red doors,
Behind a little red one,
Where I was my own final disease.
Right there, he spirited yesterday,
Behind that red door,
Burning fast thru this hell,
Look at him go.