Miss Lonelyhearts



Each trip to the small balcony
on the seventh floor
of the Hilton Garden Inn
is a recognaissance mission.
All night long babies
are being birthed,
all night long ads
are being answered
by the anonymous.
There's a flurry of baptisms
going on in the suburbs,
a flurry of orgies right next door.

Aren't Nancy Grace's twins adorable!


All night long I return
to tell a story
to myself that only
I seem to know.
And so do they.
No doubt about it,
the city is full tonight
of scoundrels and light.
Full of itself, pounding
itself to pieces, generators
grind warm air and noise
into a diamond chaos.
This is Laos or Prague.
This is Central and Indianola.