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I once believed in S. Morgenstern,
pink pearls and girlish bows
on clips in highlighted locks
of curly hair.

I once thought Leonardo was
merely a painter,
that Axel was still alive
and kickin'.

And once upon a dream I figured
that storm would pass,
that sun would peak,
but its shyness prevailed,
until now.

See, now the sun
plays hide and seek,
holding stomachs
growling of hunger
in odorous asphalt alleys,
two bars on my cell phone
and the damn battery's almost
dead.

Not darkness, just an atmospheric
murkiness.
But my lipstick's still red,
my heels high,
and there's more than waterproof
makeup that spoils the rain.

Can I run? Sure.
Will I?

Piano keys and Mr. Potato Heads,
a plastic world to feast on.
Pumps and hoochies hanging
on a moment,
or a corner off Main.
Vicodin capsules swiveling down
loos in London,
artists befriending beggars
as they search for meaning,
streets of striped thespians.
Charlie Chaplin never stood a chance.

Bonsoir et bonne chance, you bastard of a world.