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2nd Street Bottle, bullet, miracle, Only three ways out of here One too temporary One too permanent And the other just too damned unaccountable Bottle bullet miracle Only three ways past the shiftless barricades; The streetlights that hunch metallic shoulders, And spit down furious tufts of light Storefronts lined with spiderweb thread Pockmarked windows fogged with wait The watchdog stare of parking meters The bottled bags breezing into gutters Liquored faces mouthing blindly Vague attachments coiled and blistered Resplendent shakings of plodding fireworks The unhealing womb of the damnably brazen Bottle bullet miracle Only three ways across the borderline; The promised lands where the busses don't run, And the night winds don't turn into nooses Babies crying through sullen palisades Chain link fences rustily balding The sneer of taillights winking on whitewalls Garbage lids like writhing cymbals Voices churning across darkened backlots The poisonous spoils of lighted billboards Ringing payphones against bricklined alleys The crumbling prayers of distant sirens Bottle bullet miracle Only three ways through the feeble haze Past the secret sacrament of downtown buildings Merging blindly in a sweeping huddle (As though to combine sweet warm breath) The laughing bright of asking neon The glossy lust of polished bulbs The mechanical battalions in search of connection The cold metal benches of teary solitude The intangible fog of braided breath The creaking wail of a thousand screws The grating call of the insufficient champions The hazardous climaxes and the cultivated moil Bottle bullet miracle Only three ways out of here One too temporary One too permanent And the other just not worth a damn at all
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