i thank sincerely those who have come here:)

the memory of what has been
and never more will be
from the bowels of East St. Louis
to the mouth of the Mississippi
darkens the earth for me
like a dream of sex that cannot be realized,
complete with self-pity, an old feeling
when i look at my bedroom ceiling.
and all the faded headlines about Hiroshima
hiding in the book store
with the Master of the Universe
and his Raven whispering "Nevermore"
condemned to be a bore
by the children on an Apple high,
hearing screams at night they can not know,
nostalgic for the singer from Tupelo:
a blues player or a shouter
with a guitar for brains.
and all the concert goers eating steak and salad
in the event there's a cancellation when it rains,
the unpleasant sensations getting tuned out
many times over to mute the shout.
where are the story lines designed for insight?
i guess it's time for my coffee and a long good night.