Thursday, October 27, 2011

Jim Morrison poem, Untitled

A wake
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one
Choose the day, & the sign
of your day,
1st thing you see.

A burnt tree, like a giant
primeval bird, a leaf,
dry & bitter, crackling tales
in its warm waves.
Sidewalk gods will do for you.
The forest of the neighborhood,
The empty lost museum, &
The mesa, & the Mt.'s pregnant
Monument above the newstand
where the children hide
when school ends