Have a sweet night peddler of theives

Brisciut out the back of her car,
half used deoderant and lotion to sweeten the deal,
the change is a box of soda.

The deal on the night streets of San Antonio.

And perhaps I'll never learn right,
the way that's harder than this,
the way that makes all my troubles go away.

Keep them to the right, you say,
you and so many in their way.

And so the cool night welcomes the roaring trains,
the barking dogs,
the little bit of life left on a Friday night,
on the skirts of the city.

I am welcoming the night sweats of lovers,
commercial deals into fantasies.
I am bucking the sanity of the forlorn,
with scent and imagination gone, sitting alone.

empty vision.
empty vision for all with cable subscriptions.
the youth in the wealth, commodities of thought.
the plastic of this youthfulness, and the library of their knowledge curropted by the absence of real experience.
and I think, this is scary, as it seems to reveal what my fears are,
the ignorant supervision of my life.
the supervision of my life by the ignorant.
the ignored,
other than by day cares, and money trails.

ignoring the human quality of being involved in our dreams,
and the chthonian quality of entangling them with sacrifice.

And I wonder what hasn't sold,
whether outside in the street,
by the back of an unkown car,
by the arms of an untold woman.

What hasn't sold yet,
rebellion on empty visions,
redemptions on racial divisions.

What hasn't sold yet, is perhaps the hope
that something can't be bought or traded.
Dashed by divinity preachings,
devoured by the natural encyclics.

What a brisquit,
and I was hoping to barbeque,
she asked whether I did.
past midnight on a quiet evening.

Food stamp payola,
and my monitor tightens;
ignorance is not the lesson of law,
or isn't meant to be.

What hasn't sold,
isn't perhaps worthwhile,
except for the dreamers and believers,
the visionaries and young,
the old and forgotten,
who want to breathe in love,

without restrictions.