by John Clinton
A couple of blocks near the waterfront dock
where falling emissions from earth sound off
into the graveyard ears of the zombie hipster
as dogs howl of paranoia on the East River
while the moon dangles like an earring of gold
beside the void pearl of your midnight soul
under train platforms transporting Brooklyn
further into the rumbling & indecisive future
past the sultry & narrow coves of cool jazz
where Lester Young blows the French establishment
fire escape parties blaze down to the pavement
for stoned is the way of the walk this lost weekend
