homage to twilight, to that slow train
rumbling across the horizon! praise
to the herald of street dances and
animal songs! hail to the dissidence
of jackals and violins, as dreams from
underground arise: an insurgence of
trumpet flowers conspires to overrun
a barbed wire fence. and now you find
that there are no chimneysweeps at
the dead letter office. Not here, and
not in Babylon, where Lady Cinnamon
performs her sidewalk dazzle. yes, in
her winter coat! yes, in the middle of
Summer! when the aroma of bitter-
sweet sex reminds her of jackals and
violins. when desperate mosquitoes are
plentiful, plentiful, and there will always
be someone around to offer a shot or
two of something cheap, or maybe a
more costly sort of drink, something
called, I don't want to think about it
any more. but the music plays on.
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