I am the last lost poet.
At 3rd and Market I sit
at my old table, by the window
on the second floor
to wait,watch and write.
The trains stopped running
long ago, the nights are silent.
Poems don’t come easy.
There are no more saxophones
crying in the lonely dark.
Only the occasional glare
of a window lamp marking
the territory of an insomniac.
The buildings are mute.
Curtains hand heavy and damp.
This place has lost its soul.
The streets are quiet
I walk the streets at night.
I am not the boy I was.
The hardness of this place has
crept into the lines of my face.
The rain soaks me but
I am no longer moved to tears.
The shadows are mine,
and the dark corners,
dead ends and alleys.
When people pass me they don’t see me;
I am invisible, a piece of trash.
Bothers me not. I’ve lived here for years.
The stains on my soul are forever.
Forever the streets of
In One Hand Armand’s
the cold outside is kept at bay by
the heat from bodies gathered
to drink loneliness and salvation,
to drink the nearness of flesh
and the fleeting pleasures it offers.
Tonight my poison is wine,
cheaper by the glass, better buy the bottle.
The smoke is thick,
and the juke box can’t make a dent
in the conversations.
Armand, let me top off your wine glass.
Button down the hatches and load the guns.
Revolutions start in places like this.
We are tinder waiting only for fire.
We will die but lets set the night aflame.
TANGLETOWN is officially out-of-print. Contact the publisher regarding availability of archived copies and price: ngbleiATgmailDOTcom.