burnt sage and wine, companion prarie father of Brooklyn all covered in smoke. the altar- boy was vanquished, a skeleton now remains, putrid faith, fetid hallway doom. back from hamilton, firm and clean and wanting for a dollar; nothing four-fifty can't solve. he's a broken song shouting and no one knew where he came from. some say she's as old as the tenement flat she haunts, a force of nature forcing children to their calling, a bag of white out and dust-borne prose, she: listed some fury, scrawled out on a wind paper, tumbling to a home she, spat out old heartbreaks after whiskey poetics met with filterless cigarettes and broken waves of everlasting sadness collided; oh woe, woe unto the watchers and cast them to the darkness, the call rings true to broadway and no farther. i was listless and lazy and stupid and the gutter was my home on a thursday dawn so silent, the dawn-birds flew to the poplar trees. so impossibly sad and happy and manic and fallen, i fluttered from the j. jackson cooper called on a payphone wet with tears and i followed. up three flights of stairs to a bottomless mishap and no chalk-tongued laughter persuaded. "there's no home in these hills," and he was right. no church in this ancient wilderness of winos, water-mouths and sobs so i waited to til a sicilian armed sunday to make my move. a bread-loaf covered in sin is no meal. we are the lucky ones, the holy ones, the soulful ones, blessed in dispicable madness and she told me so. so impossibly sad, a distraught lullably rang through the clouds, like a bird-lung shriek and reckoning. so haggard and filthy, trailing a cape of sin shining with the sweetest grease a city-boy would ever taste. black out drunk and lulled to sleep, i followed on the bloodline of this wicked city, dribbling saliva and sulfur on a youthful, empty chest, open with no cover for st. christopher. the lady, both great and terrible, proudfooted and bile-bellied broke the silence. "there is no home in these hills" an echo called. she asked me for my last dollar and i balked, booted. but these hills are just a shadow of an illuminated city, with a thousand eyes and vocal chords made of ash and sand. she, the archangel of a mispent adolescence turned from me, red-eyed and reeling and i left that broken toothed beauty in shame. years have passed. i am a man now, more in looks than character, but mannish, a fool all the same. from my home i walked, a thousand, no one million steps to sit at the lighthouse and cry. there is no home in these hills. no echo in the call. we are bountiful meal for the mouth of a quiet malice. when the summer turns to shadow and the winter of my years remains, i'll return to that beautiful hellmouth and give her my hand, for that is all that i've not squandered.