This fragmentary 
Existence wrapped 
In coiling mortality 
Becomes a slow 
Breakdown 
As the insanity 
Becomes contagious 
Like tuberculosis 
Neurosis 
Surrounds the night 
And it’s cold 
Inside this skin 
And the layers 
Keep piling on 
Reconstruction 
And deconstruction 
At the same time 
Belief in principle 
Is a lie buried 
In a full parking lot 
And the songs 
Repeat themselves 
Like little kids 
And it all  
Becomes like the chatter 
Between AM 
Radio stations 
At 3 a.m. 
In the middle 
Of Texas 
And the sky 
Out there 
Is huge 
And the road 
Really does 
Go on forever 
To nowhere 
(she said . . ."What?") 
But the streetlights 
Have gone out 
And it’s dark 
And the stars 
Seem endless 
And I 
seem 
so 
small. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
1997 Kevin Crone