Practicing smoke rings
In front of a silver mirror.
The sick angels on my chin
With their halos and their harps
Singing the blues.
I was just a ventriloquist’s dummy
With a wrinkled forehead
But I was able to think
Independently of what the hand
On my spine was making me do.
It was a long night.
There were many mysterious stars.
Just then my soul went platinum.
Just as the first spotlight peeked
I was shedding my robes
And readying for a long sober routine
Of washed up material
Against the gray heads
Of the impatient audience
Waiting to run into the street
Whenever some dark waiter drops a glass.
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