A Girl in a Miniskirt Reads the Bible

40,000 thoughts still left to count,
memories that ride in mind, then dismount—
a $340 horse and a $100 whore,
both valued by hands that barter for score,
Debated by heartbeats who have nothing more.

A man on the radio with guts in his tone,
A smile to remember when left alone.
A challenge to the clock that we all face,
a following gathers in time’s empty space,
Folded into the corners of this distant place.

My tortured friend, Peter, speaks of his pain,
through air and light and time’s domain.
Alone with everybody, a paradox rings,
An almost made-up poem, with broken heart strings,
spoken through air, space, time, and things.

As the moon and stars and the world conspire,
Another day is born of fleeting fire.
“Are you drinking?” the hollow voice then asks,
As the poems go, so do our mechanical tasks,
a challenge to the clock, hidden amongst flasks.

As the wind-up sparrow flits through timeless skies,
Back to the machine gun’s mechanical cries.
Close to greatness where confession speaks,
Grief, consummated as the soul it seeks,
and cows in art class paint the void it leeks.
As the sparrow flutters, turning back to the gun,
The machine hums on, and the sparrow is done.
“Be kind,” someone says, as beasts bound through time,
A big night on the town with truths that rhyme,
where cursed angels dread the divine and drink wine.

And now a bluebird sings of Carson McCullers,
of cause and effect in neon-lit colors.
Close to greatness she weaves confession’s thread,
A consummation of grief for what lies ahead—
An almost made-up poem, but the reading sounds dead.

As the cows in art class paint, surreal yet stark,
A crucifix rests in death’s hand, dark.
The curtain falls, a cut while shaving,
Death wants more death, always craving.
Death wants more death, misbehaving.

The Reaper declines, says, “Eat your heart out.”
A drunk gives eulogy for dames, who once did shout.
“Finished? Finished?” the flophouse moans,
Grief consummated for Jane, who lingers in tones—
Another day—clockwork ticks, to claim as our own.

For Jane, consummated with love, wasn’t enough,
For foxes in holes, for freedom, for spirits tough.
Friends within the old clockwork, gamblers all,
As Gaslit Germans whisper down the hall.
As the poems go, we all watched them fall.

And there she is, a girl in a miniskirt,
reading the Bible where truths still hurt.
A clockwork world where life unfolds,
In stitched-together tales, the broken molds.
Flophouses shelter what time withholds.

German tunes play, all the while, a girl in miniskirt,
Reads truths to drunkards the world does hurt.
As friends within times clockworks stay,
Gamblers all, in gaslit corners where music will play,
For Jane, with all I had—and nothing left to say.