Dan Goldman , in a beat up, water worn old peacoat, parlie perched on rip-skin lip chap, asking for his meaning; never had less than twenty but was always broke, [stop tosmoke with the old shit and sodom at thewishing stone.] no one, no thing looking. saw him looking all drench mouthed,laughing like a razor-blade, iheld him up and he held me down, clovescradled by the dead-skin fingernailson a run down the decrepit banister,never looking away. so impeccably vagrant and caught up in a homelessdervish,smiling through the scene. stole some stoli,butas a man of gods he: smoked the sacrament of the bible with the great Sidharrtha choked under the willow treethatwhined about its lover, never seen an anthill living undersireable. Dan Goldman, wholicked the bowl cleanand asked for seconds always finding gold in acold arctic lockbox, dreaming in the noon. Construction Site Columbus,lookingfora late-light comrade and he found a summertimeredeemer way in the dark in the cornerin the back out on frontstreet, witha big blue ribbonand a riddledtongue. wejust wanderedthrough the avenues, all ambush and aimless. "the world is a whirl wind sometimes," jones joked with his three dollar smokes and a jackal under his tongue. i,all long mouthedmashed a five in my pocket bum-box basking in his fifteen. Damn, rotterthat jones rolls raising in the pockets andi, all leaf-turned and bowing. "if i shouldfall from grace;" mock englishgentlemen, strolling stupid stooping stmarks ave, back fromprospect. 40 and hashish ona rooftopbeaming dreaming ofa better yesterdaywhen the chains of tomorrow reach fruition. nostalgia: i'm better these days; i was a force of nature with hands red fromglass made by aholocaust-father: the great fire of '07. Never leftwhen i'mgone, justdip downthe roadway withthe ghosts and the gust, Jackson Cooper to the rescue, andi rise. Atthe apex,the lowestdip, th e slowest trip, trippingballs in the rec-room. lilylaughed. i always hatedthat dumb-face angel,ha'sand ho's dripping off arolling,wettongue. shit always had a knifein his pocket; he described it as love. got caught up in a sonnet pullingcigarettes from an ashtray wondering where he left his smile. we just gurgledpleadinglyand caught a whiff of American Pie and Big Mac, the American Hero [How do you think that's cool? Cause it's all i got.] , my world crumbles insometimes like old papyruswith too much pressure spilling an impossibly black void of ink in my sky, but praise, reminisce repeated for guilt is the twin sister of laughter, and all roads lead tolife with a sigh and a shudder. Dan Goldman, the epithetscrawler racked withritcher scalecognition wants to write me a love note only blood-brothers can understand. inthe bloody fingereddawn gripping swollen cloudsof chicken grease and grossness,your worldis just a bottle of wine. Pour lightly, myfriend. Let this dark shade cool your tempers, or do nothing at all.