You may not know
when the storm blows in
or how many times the ticking clock
strikes noon.
you may arrive for the hanging judge
an hour or a minute too soon,
before the bartender pours his drink
for the gambler
who takes a moment too long to think
which cards to keep and which ones to toss;
he couldn't afford another costly loss,
when a gentle woman of the evening
gave him a crooked smile,
with her scarlet mouth and rosemary hips,
a friendly look with honey-colored lips.
she took her time to take him by the steady hand;
but did he really understand
there was always a price to pay?
whether he took a walk down some dusty trail,
or spent quality time on her comfort bed,
or in the local sheriff's jail
where he could scratch his story on the nearest bloody wall
about how he remembered to walk
only after he learned to crawl.
and his head held high!
but he didn't stop to wonder why
there was water flowing over the highest dam,
or out on the street a perpetual traffic jam,
with planes doing cartwheels down the side streets
and over the busy boulevards.
there was no place for a man who played his cards
close to his vest with suspicious, nervous eyes
in company with hustlers and a roving company of secret spies
from Washington and the velvet underground,
who wrote their headlines after and before
the holocaust and the thirty year war.
there were everyday acrobats toasting with their evening meals,
and barnyard animals eating with their frightened squeals;
and hustlers selling books
about silky mermaids with their fishy looks;
and a terrible avalanche disrupted central avenue
just to give the busy workingmen something else to do,
beyond the shopping sprees and the investing machine,
when the king appeared with his security and his virginal queen,
carrying bags of fool's gold behind the public scene,
proclaiming everything was normal and absolutely routine:
he spoke with a perfectly mellow voice
so no one had a care or a choice.
everything was as they said:
one plus one was three
and the color blue was red.
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